


Frames

by orphan_account



Series: Sepia [1]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Frottage, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Slow Build, Sweet, Wet Dream
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-03-19 22:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 12
Words: 27,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dave catches more than sneak peeks at the Striders' life on camera, compiling them for what starts out as a chance to kick off his dreams. He learns the intricacies of affection in the process.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. You Should Plan These Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jayspants](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Jayspants).



There was a sweet, strict discipline that must be learned if one was ever going to produce something quality in film making. Sound, vision, plot, character, setting, conflict- everything had to align like the fucking stars if whatever two-hour parade was going to be worth watching. Anyone who had a grasp of how to develop a character past the second dimension had a slight chance at having these cosmic movie gifts bestowed upon them by the great film gods, and no one knew that more than you, the teen who was sprawled hopelessly across the futon.

You knew the standards, had the vision, and failed to live up to it.

It wasn’t even the actors themselves- Shatner could have done a better job in his prime, but a quality director could make any shit volunteer off the sidewalk look at least half decent. Guess who wasn’t a quality director. It’s you.

Bro had the nerve not to lavish you with attention when he emerged from his cave of a bedroom and passed into the kitchen, scratching some mysterious place under his shirt that you might have been interested in if you weren’t busy sulking. There was the soft clatter of a plate being pulled out, the fridge opening, and you didn’t look up for either of them. It was mutual when the older of the two paid less attention than you would have liked to that loud, despondent sigh that was almost forced for affection.  


He noticed, though, and that was all that really mattered. You could feel him glancing at you from across the room, quirking an eyebrow in the slightest and waiting for you to start talking. There aren’t usually questions unless you’re anxious, and luckily enough you were handling your nerves a hell of a lot better than you were last year.

That doesn’t stop you from bitch-moaning.

“My career is over. This is the end of the line, Bro. I’ll have to prostitute my camera for money to survive- or worse, I’ll have to learn how to sew. I’ll be forced into the ever-growing puppet industry. The horror.” You groaned, a half-crumpled sheet of script in your hands. There weren’t sheets of paper littered around you, either, bled dry for ideas and the few you’d had were remarkably horrible and mostly sad jabs at irony that fell flat.

Bro straightened, a glass bottle of Coke in his hand that for a second you’d mistaken as beer. He takes his time, stretching his neck as he rifles through drawers for the bottle opener. His hair shifts, and had you been in a better mood you’d have thought it was the perfect chance at a photo-op.  


“You’re a mess. Y’need to relax, calm down a little. You’re getting worked up over something you’ve got in the bag.” You didn’t even look up at him for a minute after that, the scrape of a spoon against the bottom of Tupperware alerting you to the imminent leftovers that might be served. Maybe Bro would take pity and heat it up for you. You sighed again, trying to make your _absolute misery_ as clear as any drama queen would.  


“I’m not overreacting. This is serious, Bro, my reputation is at stake. They think I’ve got a chance at the Sundance festival, alright? This is my fuckin’ _chance.”_  


“Ooooh, the big leagues there, kid. The thing you’re missing here is that you’re definitely good enough for Sundance. There’s always gonna’ be lots of other chances, too.Besides, I didn’t say you were overreacting.” You roll onto your back, huffing and letting the now-balled paper hit the floor with an unceremonious ‘thap’.  


“You don’t even know what Sundance is, how could you say that?” Your mouth was set in a frown, and it’d been like that for so long that your face ached. Too stubborn to let yourself relax, though, determined to pout about your shit luck until Bro came and babied you. Come on, share some prime grub with you, wrap his arm around you and let you doze off watching some shit in TV was the best thing in the world to you, maybe you’d get lucky. It already looked like he was bringing food.  


“Because I know talent when I see it, Dave. And you’ve got a shitton of it. More than fuckin’ A.J.Abrahm. Bruce Nolan ain’t got shit on you.” He’s bringing the plates out after some insistent beeps from the microwave. 

The encouragement didn’t match up to your standards, though, and your complaint was more than just a ruse to get some more affection this time. The genuine distress peeks through your tone, and you care a little less when you feel him take note.   


“Those are both shit examples, though! Bruce Nolan only got lucky ‘cause he had a run-in with Heath Ledger during Batman, literally all the rest of his movies are unnecessary angst and shit and that’s not what I want to be.”  


“Which is my point exactly. You’re a hundred times better than they are, and you know what you want to do. You know where youre goin’ and how you want to get there, and that’s a big fucking deal. Bigger than Hollywood itself, right? Move over.” You pulled your legs up long enough for him to sit down, then they were resting over his lap while he set the coffee table with two plates of leftover spaghetti. It was a rarity in the Strider household, never lasted more than two days with how much you both loved it.  


“Yeah, I guess.” Your tone had picked up, and you weren’t frowning with so much severity anymore. “It doesn’t change that I still don’t have a single frame of work done.”  


“You got your sights set. You’ll figure out the rest, alright?” Bro promised, and you were shifting into a sitting position so you could eat, swinging your legs off him. He cast a little glance over at you around his shades, and you replied by pressing your fist into his shoulder in an echo of a punch. He pushed at you playfully before looking back at his plate, which held that glimmering appeal that was specific to the effect microwaves had on pasta.  


“Sure.” You reply like you doubt it, but it’s all too obvious to the both of you that you’re considering his words. There’s a spark of something there that decimates the sulky mood you’d been in, a twist in your stomach that’s nothing like the sick kind. It’s a flutter, tasting like adoration and it makes the way you lean against him lightly for a moment easy, comforting. He lets you breathe, even nudging at your foot a little with his own. However dramatic, he still wanted to be sure you were alright, and that felt nice as hell. 

He also lets you pick the movie, and fuck if you weren’t gonna' be after Pitch Perfect for the sixth time that month- but he’s perfected the act of appearing exactly how he wants to, so it’s hard to tell if he’s genuinely interested in it or if he’s just humoring you. You kind-of hope it’s both, pretending you can’t read him for the second you slide back against him on the futon.

The arm that comes to rest easily around your shoulders, though, isn’t any part of his act, and you enjoy leaning against him.

**Dave == > Be Bro**

Dave always had anxiety. You were under the impression that it ran in the family, though you aren’t really sure why. When you were little, Mom always knew exactly how to handle it on the somewhat frequent occasion you were worked up, but you hadn’t thought about it in a long time. Now, you only felt faded, familiar pangs when Dave was particularly bad, but even that was lessening as he got older.

Somehow, you didn’t want to ruin his image of you by letting him know that. You were fully aware of the fact that there was nothing to be ashamed of, knew it inside and out and yet sympathizing was out of your area here. You only offered up the same help that Mom did for you, let him have space when he needed it and took his mind off the topic when you thought it was best. Like now. There was a sulky silence in the car that had been hanging round the kid all morning. Your plan was in slightly bad taste, but it had a fair chance of helping a hell of a lot. His forehead rested against the dashboard, hands between his knees. He’d tossed the half-sized spiral notebook of “Shit ideas and shittier sketches” behind his seat a while ago.  


“You said you were gonna take my mind off it, Bro, what the fuck are we doing going to the movie theatres?” The vibrations of the truck’s movement shook his skull, making clicking sounds with his shades against plastic.  


“I know what I’m doing.” You muttered with a lack of the amusement you’d expected from yourself, turning into the parking lot.  


“Sure you do. Sure. You better buy me some fuckin’ Reese’s, Bro, or I’ll never forgive you for this.”  


“Course I’m gonna get you Reese’s, what kinda brother do you think I am?”  


“A shit one. Taking me to a movie theater. What are we gonna watch, Rocky Horror? That would be fun, actually. Please, tell me it at least passes the bechedel test.” He flicked a crumb of some long-forgotten meal off of the dash next to him before sitting up, looking around outside. 

The truck shuttered off, and you were the first to move. Keys jingled as they were pulled out of the ignition and you was walking around the hood, smiling at the shitty joke that was this ordeal. You made it all the way to the kid’s door and opened it before he even unbuckled.  


“Come on, Dave, this is going to be fun.” As begrudgingly as he possibly could make it, he finally slid out of the car, hands shoved into his pockets as he followed you inside. The bright theater lights weren’t on in the daytime, but they still looked pretty neat to you.

Movie Central was your usual, you’d bring Dave here when the both of you agreed on a good preview- sappy romances, comedies, sometimes even sci-fi if they felt like no one they knew would show up. Annie was fuckin’ above the bar for what qualifies as good, and Dave had loved it enough to stop saying it was ironic when he’d burst into song.

The lady at the desk was nice, even if you were far too amused with Dave’s tantrum to pay as much attention to her as you should have. You were planning on taking him to see this as a surprise anyways, so in other circumstances it’d have been more exciting. Hell if you didn’t love how excited he looked sometimes, proclaiming how he’d be as good as The Greats, Peter Jackson would be asking him to co-direct some day, and when his bright expressions were washed in the neon lights, you felt like he was almost already there.  


Needless to say, that wasn’t him this time.  


“You two are the first to want to see this one, I thought they’d have to cancel this showing.” The girl said in a voice that alluded to a boring shift. She slipped two mono-color tickets under the window, your brother completely ignoring the both of you.  


“Yeah, well, it’s a special occasion.” You replied, gesturing subtly in Dave’s direction, where he was buying twenty dollar’s worth of peanut butter cups. The kid pulled money out of your wallet like it was easy to get, damn. 

Your theater was absolutely empty save for the you and Dave, like she’d said. None of the good seats were taken, then. Dave propped his legs on the back of the chair in front of him, and your arms went over the backs of the seats next to you, squeezing the kid’s shoulders a little.  


“What movie is this?” Dave asked for the first time, _finally_ showing a little interest in what you were planning.  


“It’s a good one. We’re gonna Mystery Science Theater this shit, kid.” That was about the time _**Moon Zombies from Space** _spread across the screen in black-and-white letters that were supposed to look like they were dripping blood. You were already suppressing a smile.__  


“Oh my _God,_ Bro, I have never been more wrong about you in my entire life, what the fuck.” Dave sputtered into laughter, and you grinned almost stupidly while obviously fake names faded on and off the screen.  


“Told you, didn’t I?” You tell yourself you aren’t patting yourself on the back, but you’re a lying douche and you know it.  


“Yeah, you did.” As he settled back down, Dave’s palm fell over the back of yours on the armrest, sliding his fingers between your own. It’s a little gesture that doesn’t really stick out to you, if only because you’re glad he’s not sulking anymore. 

“Oh, Julia, I think this is the end.” Some spray-tanned jerk on screen was saying to a blonde, assumedly blue-eyed girl who was waving an axe around so unconvincingly it was hilarious. The acting hurt to watch, and Dave kept talking about the casting director being high off his ass when he picked these idiots.  


“I know, Drake.” She was replying in a high-pitched voice that sounded excruciatingly put on, while the dude looked like he was in pain, flexing as hard as he could while trying to look casual. He didn’t. You were both laughing too hard to make comments at the screen.  


“Bro, I don’t think I can take this romantic tension, save me now.” The younger pleaded, and in the midst of your snickering you went along with it, drawing near with a dramatic swoon. You’re putting on some preppy accent that feels weird in your mouth, but it sounds as hilarious as you’d wanted it to.  


“Dave, you know I’ve always loved you.”  


“Ooh, Bro!” You didn’t really intend to carry it out, but your hands were still pulling his closer in a mirror of the two on screen, mocking voices between you and leaning in with an artificial, jesting fear. For some reason you kept leaning in. It didn’t _really_ surprise you when your lips met, his soft ones light and gentle and you were very suddenly extremely aware of the fact that yours were chapped. It might have been something special, if he wasn’t your brother and there wasn’t the half-assed screams of underpaid actors in surround sound. 

Then the scene was over, and Dave pulled away a little too quick, his face lit up in the dark of the theater. The light of the screen reflected in the shades pushed into his hair, showing the surprised expression in slivers of white and grey.  


“You kissed me, Bro.” That wasn’t really the truth, Dave had leaned in, too, but you weren’t about to blame it on him, stomach twisting.  


“Yeah. Think that’s about right.” A weird, tense moment seemed to stretch out and you were starting to look for excuses by the time he spoke.  


“You should do it again sometime.”  
The ride home was a little quieter, stealing glances at each other. 

At least until you both burst out laughing.


	2. Calm Down, Kid, Someone Might Think You're Nervous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With an idea in mind, Dave starts off his film with a underwhelmingly less than a bang.

Film projects suck. You, in a fit of frustration and classic Southern stubbornness, decided not to use any of your fellow film students to help out, and Bro was too busy sewing to read out a few lines. You at least assumed so, it’s not like you’d asked.  


Approaching him was a little weird, now, you weren’t sure if you were allowed to bring up the fact that you two had macked, or that you’d liked it, or if there were any plans to be doing it again. It wasn’t weird to you really, it felt as natural as anything else the two of you did. Then again, strife wasn’t exactly conventional, and you weren't too sure that the puppets came into the picture at all. _That_ thought might have your stomach turning, but the volume in your headphones were too high for you to focus on it.  


No matter how much you told yourself that it wasn’t something you should be thinking so much about, you still felt like he noticed how often you were caught looking at him.  


Sitting straight up in your bed, and the camera clattered to your lap from where it had been resting on your chest. There were clips on it, parts of half-finished scenes you’d scrapped halfway through. Nothing felt honest enough- and if you couldn’t make it feel real while you were rolling, there was no way the audience would be fooled into thinking it was sincere either. You needed to convince yourself more than anyone else that what you’re filming is genuine, you think, fingers sweeping around the curve of the lens cap.  


How, though? You knew you were good enough to act honestly, but you don’t have anyone else who could help with the rest. Full-on production is _not_ a one-man job.  


There was a break in the music, and, “Fuck yeah, Oscar, don’t take shit from that goddamn elephant.” filled the void. Bro was sleep-deprived and watching Sesame Street in the living room, his hair was a mess. Peering at him from your place in the covers, a hint of a smile lifted your lips. He’d taken a shower about an hour ago, and it still wasn’t dry. A sudden, brilliant idea sparked and you gasped in the drama of it, grinning unrestrained now.  


Candid camera. You’d improvise, and Bro would be Bro. You could even let him in on the deal, your brother was so sincere with everything he said it didn’t matter, it would be as real as it felt, on camera. It was perfect,right?  


You jumped off the bed, camera carefully discarded in the sheets behind you, settling into your desk chair with your legs pulled up, fingers flying over the keys now that ideas were flooding your mind in sparks and babbles.  


It was going to be the epicenter of the explosion that rocketed your career into motion. A peek into the life of you, you already even had some clips and pieces from a few months ago you could use. The first time you’d ever tried a cigarette, stored away on a desolate file in between the rest of the others, between people on the streets and rainfall outside your window. Nervous-shaking fingers loosely holding a cigarette while your douche-friend Cronus egged you on in the background, but Bro would flip his shit if he ever found out.  


You could say it was in the name of your god the Asthetic, but he wouldn’t give that as much credit as he should.  


Smiling to yourself over the keys, your simple notion was exciting you more and more- your brother’s comments to the television faded eventually, and when your playlist ended it was almost dark out. You rolled back in your chair to peek out the door and see if Bro was there, only to be disappointed. 

_____ 

Your brother glanced up for only a moment when you came out around ten that night, setting up cameras. He was sorting through fabric at his worktable, tapping his feet to whatever song was playing in his head.  


“What are you doin’?” He asked through a mouthful of push-pins, stretching out a bolt of pooltable-green. He was marking the fabric here and there, rarely taking his eyes off of it to look up at you. You telescoped your tripod out, locking each leg individually. When you looked back up, his eyes fluttered away from you, and fuck if it didn’t feel good to know that he was thinking about “it” too.  


“Same as you, working on a project.” You replied, watching him push pins one at a time into the places he’d marked.  


“What kind of project?” He sounded a little shaky about his words, he was thinking too much and you weren’t going to say out loud that the fact tickled the fuck out of you.  


“The film one. Don’t worry, Bro, these aren’t going to be on twenty-four-seven.” He snorted a laugh, like that was the problem. You kind-of wanted to go and kiss him again then, catch his smile by surprise. It wasn’t a shocker, though, when you didn’t.  


“Sure they aren’t.” Bro muttered to his fabric, the traces of a smirk lingering on his focused features. Fuck you for thinking it’s cute.  


“What, you scared I’m gonna' get solid frames of you sleep-talking?” You’re cutting a playful glance at him, leaning down to adjust one of the tripod’s legs. “I’ll dig up some juicy stuff on you, for sure. I bet you talk about your sexual attraction to children’s toys and how it’s influenced your taste in puppets.” He leans back in his chair, trying not to laugh at your insult.  


“That was deep, kid, but I’m more afraid that your cameras picking up my trips to the fridge at night. I’m like a fuckin’ caveman, baffled by such modern commodities as cameras.” It’s you who snickers this time, straightening up. Your fingers have memorized these movements, and it’s with a kind of caring skill that you’re screwing your favorite camera into the base. When you look up to retort with something stupid, your brother’s watching the way your hands move.  


“Sorry to break it to you man, but you’re _already_ a caveman.” You turn the lens to face him, putting on your best attempt at an Australian accent. “Here we are now, live at the scene to see the ominous Dirk Strider in his natural habitat. Boy, isn’t he a beauty? Look at the grace, the natural power. This one knows he owns his territory. He marks his scent, pheromones on the markers that litter his cave.” You’re kicking at a smuppet by your feet, and in turn get another thrown at you.  


“Hey, careful around the equipment, Animal Wonder.” He gives you some weird-ass animal call, breaking out the scissors to start cutting fabric. “Is that your mating call? Oh, Bro, I can feel myself lured into the appeal. Yodel at me some more, big guy.” Imitating swoons, the back of your hand’s on your forehead and you’re bending over the back of the futon to look at him upside-down.  


“Your shitty acting is gonna' attract some grayscale zombies and then we’ll _both_ be in trouble.” Oops. There it was, and this was the closest the two of you had been to actually talking about it.

**Dave == > Fuck up spectacularly.**

You’re stumbling over your words a little, faltering, but it makes a hell of a difference since you’re Mr. Cool Junior.  


“Yeah, I’m sure you’ll be over here, heh, to like, kiss on me some more like it’s the end of the line.” He doesn’t even look up at you from the fabric, bouncing his knee a little like he can feel your nerves flaring up.  


“That can be arranged.” He muttered, and then he was glancing over at you sharply and you were nearly falling over.  
Defeated, you retreat to your bedroom on the excuse that you’d forgotten something and berate yourself for being such a nervous fuck-up.  


_____

You love it when Bro falls asleep on the couch in the middle of the day. It’s sweet as hell, and you unscrewed your favorite camera from its tripod so you could get a more personal view. It was cute as hell, if ‘cute’ was a good way to describe a toned man with a messy hat and even messier hair, muttering lightly to himself now and then asleep on the futon in a wrinkle of clothing. His shades were skewed, tangled in his bangs. You had to stop yourself from taking them off of him right away, but you allow yourself the affectionate swipe of hair, shifting his bangs out of his eyes just a little. He finally crashed from that 29-hour streak, one last Redbull unfinished on the coffee table a testament to his drowsy downfall.  


“You’re adorable, Bro,” You mutter, getting comfortable behind the lens as you press the REC. button. Ten seconds of capturing slow breaths and subtle twitches, and you had a sweet moment saved on file. Then it was all soft, gentle hands sliding his shades off, folding them nicely on the coffee table, taking his hat and tossing it into the recliner with a cloth-y tumble. You pulled the huge Care Bare blanket down over him from the back of the futon, making sure your Bro was comfortable, tucking him in. It wasn’t without the taste of irony, knowing he’d done the same for you a hundred times with the same exact blanket. You palmed your camera again, not quite ready to leave even though you had the sweetest clip ever. Sitting cross-legged in front of him, leaning lightly against the arm of the futon, you watched his light, dream-induced twitches a little longer before you leaned forward. A light, soft kiss tucked neatly away on his lips, and you were moving back to your room in a little more of a rush than was necessary.  


The feeling buzzed on your mouth for a long time, and you’re lying on your back on the bed with your fingers over your face, grinning into them for way too long to be passed off as ironic or cool, but you didn’t need to.  


About forty minutes later, you heard the rustling of fabric that meant your brother was up and going back to his bedroom. The door shut, gently like he was afraid you’d hear.  


The fleeting idea crossed your mind to follow him, but you were already trying to figure out this weird, buzzing euphoria that had you lying on your bed, getting excited over stupid shit like the next strife, or the way he came in sometimes to steal your music since you’d never let him listen to it openly.  


Fuck, you were in the shit hip-deep, and you were loving it.


	3. Learn the Importance of Locking Your Door

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> You both know that wasn't a mistake, let's be honest.

“Fuck,” You look to Dave at the word, confused for a moment when fingers jolted out of the sink and to his mouth. The teen’s shoulders had jerked, and from behind him there wasn’t much for you to see.  


“Did you cut yourself?” You already know the answer, he jumps like that when he doesn’t expect a cut in strife and you were too familiar with the routine of being on first-aid patrol. Everything from the dreaded boo-boos of toddlerhood to bruises, the few nerve-wracking trips to the ER for broken bones or the few rare occasions a strife went wrong.  


The first time you’d ever fucked up and hit him, your long-dead anxiety shook you so hard you had boxed up the swords for months, terrified that you’d hurt him again or DCF would get their hands on him, snatch him away and they’d have solid grounds to, which had scared you more.  


“Yeah, I slipped.” He muttered in that self-reprimanding tone you really hate. You set down your stack of plates with a slightly rushed clatter, sliding up next to him.  


“Are you bleeding?” You’re asking, setting the bowls in his hands onto the counter. You don’t get an answer, coming around and pulling Dave by the shoulder to assess the damage, pulling a little at his wrist to see his fingers better.  


There are two cameras watching you that you’d been edging around all morning, but your skittish glancing between them had all but dissipated by now. He didn’t even seem to notice them. Your hands instead came around the other’s for a moment, and a light smile actually pulled at your lips when you saw that it wasn’t bad.  


“It stings like hell.” The teen muttered.  


“Y’think a band-aid will be enough? We can rig up a splint, take you to the hospital. They might give you a full-body cast, though, so I don’t know that’ll be the best idea.” You’re teasing, and he’s trying not to smile. For all of his dramatics and chill attitude, he’s more of a nerd than either of you would ever admit to.  


“I think I’ll live band-aid free.” He replied in the same tone, and for a strange moment it was just the two of you next to each other, drawn in by the bait Dave was dangling in front of you, himself. His thin fingers fit really well against your own, calloused, he was like a doll. It was the same, wanting care that had moved you before which had you now, pulling his knuckles to your lips to kiss the slight offense away. He only watched you, hovering so imperceptibly closer.  


“Hey, Dave. Is this okay? This.” You asked after a moment, lips brushing against his skin as you spoke.  


This time, he wasn’t hesitating to respond. His hands fluttered with nerves, but they were well-controlled when he reached up, pushing his shades into his bangs and stretching on his toes. The reminder that he was still shorter than you stings, but the excited, shaky kiss you were surprised with. He steps on your toes, muttering an apology that fades when you steal another press of lips from him, savoring the feeling it comes with: relief, almost.  


His fingers curl around your belt loops, and draw you in, letting the two of you linger like this for seconds that seem to last a sweet eternity before he was pulling back, not _quite_ meeting your eyes. You don’t tease him about his cheeks lighting up, either.  


The atmosphere had permanently shifted, and it was fine as hell with you.  
_____

“You’re fucking gorgeous, Dirk.” Dave hissed against your neck, sucking hot kisses over the back of your shoulders. Your hands rose overhead, grabbing fistfuls of the other’s soft, light hair and you were being palmed over, graceful fingers sliding down your stomach, groping over your jeans with the hot skin of Dave’s front against your back, a rhythm to the way you’re moving against each other and you were hissing affectionate words into the air.  


And then the sheets rustled. Daylight seemed to flood the room in a blink, and the sweat-dampened dream was over. Your heart was thrumming excitedly in your chest, a groan and you were burying your face in the comforter.  


“Shit.” The word was a murmur in your mouth, the one expression you’d allow yourself for now before stretching against the mattress, feet passing the blanket to touch cool air.  


God, what kind of dream was that supposed to be? A damn good one, you thought with a breath, but the instinct alone brought a guilt to it you didn’t really want to deal with. Kissing was good, lips and mouths and pretty breaths over your neck was beautiful and sweet, but this was enough to turn your morals.  


Fucking hell.  


Your arousal pressed at your attention, reminding you in slow breaths that you weren’t going to just will away the excitement that rode on your thoughts. It came back slowly, then all at once, the flutter of Dave’s mouth over your skin, hands pulling at you, hot breaths and words searing into your hair, fuck, you didn’t put up a fight. Your hands moved under the sheets in slow strokes, waistband holding down your wrist as it moved.  


A few seconds, and you were panting, eyes shut so you could replay your dream in your head, covers tossed off of your body in a heat. You weren’t known for noise, but hot breaths and mutters, _“-fuck-”_ , were perforating the air in increasing frequency and intensity, feet sliding against the sheets like it could make this lethargic fantasy any more real.  


“Hey, Bro, have you seen my microphone, I--” Dave opened the door without knocking. Fuck if this wasn’t a cliché, your hand flies off of your body like it’s on fire, bolting up and grabbing at the blanket to cover yourself. It doesn’t accomplish much, really, and your ears are burning. The kid always fucking knocks, _always,_ the two of you had made a pact years ago, when the amazing discovery of masturbation had taken Dave over by storm and tissues.  


Whoops.  


“I- I’m sorry, holy shit, I- alright. Thought you’d, be using smuppets for your personal, uh, me-time, but I’m learning all kinds of shit today. Alright. I’ll go back to my beat boxing, you go back to your… beating.” He nearly slams the door, but you can see his feet only turn and he’s leaning against it. You could talk to him, arms crossed tight over your… lap. You decide against it, staring at the door and waiting for something to happen.  


On the other side of the door, Dave burst out laughing.  


“Shut up.” It came out irritated, but you didn’t mean it to. You throw what you can reach at the door- a balled-up sock, and it hits the wood right around where his head would be.  


“Make me.” He was still laughing, _”Your fucking **face,** Bro.”_ and other offenses compounded your embarrassment, frowning over at a pair of boxers on the floor you couldn’t put on yet.  


Dave was in his room when you finally came out, editing his film project so far. There was no way you could look him in the eyes yet anyways, knowing that the walls were too thin for him not to hear you had he been listening well enough.

_____

 **Dave == > Film Everything**  


You had taken up the sole, noble task of bringing your camera with you every single time you went out of the house. Bro could be driving you to fucking McDonald’s, and you would bring your camera to film the two of you stuffing your faces, though lately you’d be nudging each other’s feet under the table, too.  


Bro knew that you were filming, but not that this was about the two of you specifically. So far, he was pretty much fine with it, as far as you knew. Camerashy wasn’t something you’d have pegged him for, but here he was giving you glances that could mean anything.  


Or perhaps he was still weirded out that you’d caught him in the delicate act of wrestling the ol’ one-eyed snake.  


Ew, never use that term again. Not even in your head, that was gross.  


“Hey, Bro, you know. It’s not like we haven’t caught each other before, man. Like, maybe it’s weird now that there’s this awesome sexual tension between us and shit, but I personally don’t care that much.” You lean a little, nudging his shoulder flirtatiously while Bro pushed the cart, smirking like you’ve done something funny.  


“You came in on purpose, didn’t you?” He asked suddenly, and your smug expression dropped so fast he was stuttering into a guffaw, stopping in the middle of the snack isle to make his point, watch your cheeks light up.  


“Yeah, so I did. I didn’t think you were all exposed, though.” You mutter defensively, crossing your arms. “I was curious to see if you were gonna' moan my name or some shit like in every goddamn gay novel there is.”  


“I’m hurt to think you’ve got such a low opinion of my allure, kid.” Bro reaches out, picking at your hair and letting you bat him away.  


“If I really did think little of you, I wouldn’t have ‘accidentally’ walked in.” You hide your face behind your camera to escape the conversation, and a new clip joins your collection of strong hands curled around the bar of an old, worn shopping cart.


	4. Bro ==> Snoop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro's curiosity gets the better of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> God I wrote this on a binge. Time to go crash.

“Is it really necessary to have three cameras on us?” Your fingers work over the back of one of your gloves, pulling at it while Dave adjusts the focus on one of the eyes that’s got you under its unmoving, apathetic gaze. “Y’can’t tell me that you’ve got to look three different ways at me to get the picture.” 

“Yeah, man, I need to have different angles. It’ll get boring to watch if I don’t.” He looks so focused, concentrated, his intense eyes on the camera as he set up the scene. It made everything just a touch unreal, as if this was all an act. You weren’t sure how easy you could be with that feeling, even if Dave was never hard to read. You didn’t like that disconnect, especially now that things between the two of you were shifting. 

“Why does anyone have to watch us, anyways?” You didn’t mean it to be a mutter, but nonetheless it was painfully obvious to both of you that there were nerves buzzing just under your skin, camerashy was not the word to use, but it was something close. 

“You weren’t freaking out about it before, Bro, what’s different about them now?” He asks like it’s not a big deal, though you’re glancing at the other two lenses focused on you, staring. Unblinking. It’s creepy as fuck, to put it in less sentiment, and your cool composure is damn near compromised. 

“ _Now,_ it feels like I’m the center of your project.” Your hands smooth out the fabric in front of you as he takes his seat at the worktable. He’s already good with a thread, but he still watches everything you do as if he’s clueless, or like he’s still impressed by what you can achieve outside of smuppetry. He’s thinking about his words, you can tell, his hands soft and slow to draw out thread from a bobbin that you didn’t need, and he was speaking as he twisted it back around it’s spool again. 

“Maybe. I don’t know yet. The project is about my life, Bro, and you happen to be a big part of it.” He doesn’t quite look at you, but that’s alright. There’s a silence that you let happen, waiting for it to mature, fighting your own expression hard and he’s just starting to get worried when you allow yourself the smile, reaching an arm around his shoulders and pulling him in, pressing a gentle kiss against his temple. 

“Don’t think that me indulging you this time is permission to keep recording me.” You’re speaking soft against his skin, content, and you can feel him goddamn-near melting against you. For a second he’s breaking, showing how badly he wants to be close and hell if it isn’t enticing. His hand slides off the table, resting less-than-passively on your thigh. He’s asking permission. 

You let him go, and your hands are back on the fabric in front of you, pulling two pieces of high-end material to fit against each other. You’re saying no. It’s obvious that he’s disappointed, delicate fingers leaving your lap and resurfacing to help you organize the project you’re teaching, but there’s an understanding you’re fallen for. Neither of you plan on pushing each other past any limits, and that’s okay. It almost drives you in for another kiss, but you’ve already got his hopes up and you aren’t about to bring this into conversation yet. Besides, the cameras are rolling, and any ease you’d have had talking before is gone. 

______ 

Dave had left for school almost three hours ago, and none of that coming-home-early bullshit is endangering your curiosity this time. You’d been planning this break-in for about three days, far too curious about the moments Dave was collecting on the fleet of cameras he had, adopting from GoodWill’s and birthdays, sometimes your own. Settling in his desk chair, you felt oddly out-of-place in his room. He’s made it into a living art piece, everything has a sense of beauty to it- albums stacked, looming over his sound equipment. An unmade bed and two spare smuppets tossed in among his dirty clothes, like he’d dare use them for what they’d been made to do. At best, they were there for the irony of it. At worst, he was taking them in to model. 

He’d asked you more than once to do so, come on Bro, please, just a few snaps and I’ll be gone, but you always turned him down. Cameras didn’t like you; they pointed out everything you disliked about your features that a mirror wouldn’t. They picked apart your body language and pulled at your clothes, making them look odd on you, making everything you did seem like an offense. You were better off orchestrating the shot than being a part of it, but even after a while of that, your interest in filmography tapered until Dave picked it up. He blew it into a talent, and here he was, dual-enrolled just to kick his career off as early as he could. 

It isn’t hard to guess his password. It isn’t until later that you realize he’s written it on a sticky-note that’s affixed to the spine of a few books beside the monitor, but you aren’t too embarrassed to find it. The files are easy to find, propped proudly on the desktop and named “Frames”. He always picks names like that for his projects. Usually they made sense, but you aren’t sure you get it this time. Dave is passionate, too caught-up in the meaning of projects you only ever see the basework for to explain how things work in his head, how he sees things. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, he’ll share some of his work with you, but it’s too rare. The way Dave Strider sees the world always seems so personal to you, how devoted he can be to making a set-up look exactly right, how delicate he is with his subjects. It’s something you admire, though you aren’t exactly sure how. 

The files all have numbers on them rather than names, so you take a shot at the first one. 

_You’re holding it wrong, chief._

The view is of Dave’s neck, his gorgeous mouth, collarbones peeking out from under a tank. There’s someone behind him, and a pair of hands come into view- Dave’s, and the other guy’s on it, intimate, showing him how to hold a cigarette. They’re both laughing, and it brings a disgusting taste to your mouth. You feel sick, trying to convince yourself it isn’t jealousy, and when the clip cuts to the billow of smoke that comes after a breath, you’re closing it out and picking a new one. 

It’s a wide shot of the room you’re in, motionless space filling up the screen save for the body on one side and the fan on the other. The kid pulls at his shirt, facing away from you, taking it off and exposing the map of freckles that cluster over his spine, trailing away at his hips. He’s pulling at his shorts, then, and your eyes are all too readily drawn to the curve of his hips, his thighs and the slight way his boxers pull up. 

He’s sifting through clothes to find a new outfit, then, and the clip ends. 

The next one is you. 

_Don’t think you’re getting away from me now, you li’l fuck._

On-screen Bro cursed at an escaped needle, diving under the desk to hunt it out of the carpet and subdue it back to work. You were watched from a distance, in the center of the picture, the lamp on your table the only light source in the room. You can’t find the errors in yourself that usually stand out, this time, though watching yourself move from behind is strange. 

The next few are much shorter- you, with bright eyes and your shades clipped around your collar, a dirty face and wild hair, laughing like a child. Dave, fixing his hair in the mirror in a rush. Both of you, cursing at each other over a dangerous game of mariokart. The rain falling outside Dave’s window, soft and grey and calm. You, singing into the spatula as you fry up pancakes. 

And then there’s this one. 

You look disheveled, like you’d been sleeping there on the futon for a while. Your eyes are closed, lips parted, limbs in a twist, but that isn’t the point of the shot. You look vulnerable, almost, but more than that. You’re somehow beautiful, in the shot, stripped of your composure but completely genuine. Your breath comes in flutters, so much like the way Dave’s own sound when he’s on the brink of heavy sleep. 

You finally close out the files entirely, leaving everything as it was when you leave the room. 

It lingers on your mind until the kid gets home, how you looked, the difference between Dave in a shot and you. When he was there, it was like he was woven in. The shot wasn’t really about him, but about the setting he happened to be in, out-of-focus but still very much there. You, on the other hand. You were the center, everything centered around you and what you did effected the motion around you. Maybe that meant something, but figuring out what was beyond you. 

Goddamn amazing, really, all of them. 

“Bro, I’m home.” 

You’re already there, though, and as his backpack thuds to the floor you’re sweeping him into your arms, pulling off his shades and clipping them to your shirt. He doesn’t ask why, and you relax against him as his hands come up around your back, grabbing you like he’s afraid you’re saying goodbye. You don’t say anything, and he’s literally wrapped up in your hello. Then you’re pressing kisses into his hair, he’s laughing something beautiful and golden, playful hands pulling at your shirt while your own smooth up his back, taking your time over the pretty curve of his spine and elegant shoulderblades. He stills, looking only slightly up at you when your hands come to rest, fingers laced behind his nape and thumbs brushing over his jawline. 

He’s the center of your frame, if you’re willing to dive into sentiment. 

And then you’re back to showering affection on him, sweet kisses across his cheeks and they’re slowing down by the time you’re on his lips, smooth and graceful. His hands are on your stomach, palms flattening against you and moving to rest on your hips. 

“You’re fucking ridiculous, Bro, what happened?” He asks, fighting to place words when you’re stealing his mouth. 

“Nothin’ happened, I just love you.” He’s smiling now, pulling you against him until his back is pressed against the door, kisses getting hotter when he parts his lips and draws you in. His hands are even better, pulling you close, dancing around the hem of your shirt but that’s as far as he dares go, pulling your hips against his own while your fingers slide up, toying in his hair and gentle, caressing his cheeks. Your shades come off, and later you find them in the heap on Dave’s backpack. 

It’s intoxicating, fuck, he tastes like gum and smells like your cologne, taking over your senses by storm and only now do you realize how real this is. He’s finally seizing the opportunity, in the small space between you, palms over your chest and sliding down your sides, petting you. Small, breathy sounds escape him and it’s hot, you’re caught drinking them in until he breaks away from your kisses, lips parted against your neck, every move had been premeditated and you could feel it, calculated, perfect. 

“Dave,” You start, pressing him against the door, and he’s grinding slow against you. The friction lights up your skin, sends your heart thrumming loud and excited in your chest, but it’s enough to take you back a few steps, pulling away. You’re surprised at yourself, honestly, both as far as you let it go and you wouldn’t have expected to pull away from something so goddamn enticing. 

“What? Come on, you’re gonna' get me all kinds of hot and hard and then just leave me? Fuck, that’s a hell of a way to say hello.” He objects, sagging against the door, though this time he isn’t bringing on the dramatics to show you how disappointed he is. Somehow, that’s a little worse. 

“Yeah, man. Sorry ‘bout your luck.” You’re running a hand through your hair, and he’s snatching his shades off your collar. 

“Fuck you.” 

“Isn’t that the plan?” He flicks you off, collecting his bag. You're not sure if you should laugh or curse yourself.


	5. Anxiety Runs in the Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's nothing you can do now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I mostly wrote this while I was dog-sick, pet my ego and tell me you like it.

You’re a little kinder to the way the apartment has turned into a filming studio, now. Dave’s been buzzing in your space for the past fifteen minutes, silently documenting as your own personal narrator. You’ve been expecting him to break into that shitty Australian accent again, make a crack at how you look when you’re concentrating, but he doesn’t. Dave hasn’t complained about how much you work in a long time, finally comfortable now that he can watch you work at home.  


It had been almost five years since the brilliant epiphany had blown your mind; you desperately needed to expand past a puppet-only name in order to make a comfortable income, and ever since that day you’d been making almost triple, landing the two of you in the middle class at last. Every month since then, you’d been doing better than before. You liked that he always kept you company, bringing his laptop out or watching T.V., always finding some way to share space and you loved the closeness. It hadn’t changed since he was little, looming around you every time you were home. Hell, he’d sit patiently on the toilet, watch you shave, kicking his feet and babbling on about everything he’d done that day.  


“D’you think you’ve got enough of me yet?” You ask, tossing him a light-hearted glance with a needle in your teeth, both hands still on the mannequin to adjust miniscule flaws that could’ve been overlooked by anyone who cared less about the details than yourself. It felt good, drawing everything together, stepping back and seeing how well it worked. Projects as intricate as this had you aching for the old, familiar love of engineering. Maybe you’d ask Dave if he’d let you tinker with something of his toys. The kid had as many electronics as a teenager was wont to accumulate and then some, devoted to his talents as far as you were willing to support him. Still, it wouldn’t hurt if you took down your tinker box, pulled apart one of his old computers, played around some. You’d like that.  


“No. You’re fucking gorgeous, and I couldn’t ask for better lighting. The camera loves you too much, there’s no way I’m gonna' break it’s little heart.” He cooed, teasing. His voice still kept that sweet, adoring touch that he never seemed to let go of with the years. You hoped he never did.  


“I’m swooning.” You tease, tossing a scrap of lace his way and watching him bat it out of the air.  


“You look like it.”  


When you take a break from pulling together a masterpiece of a dress, he follows you into the kitchen with his extra eye cataloging you, capturing you as you pull down two glasses and give him a onceover.  


“What are you planning, kid?” You ask, peering over at him with narrowed eyes while the high bubble of cola pops in the air.  


“Nothing, Bro, I’m just getting some quality frames here. Can’t a guy just appreciate art in motion?” He quipped, all innocent and sweet and complimenting. Yeah. Sure. You slid his glass over to him on the counter, but he didn’t take it. Apparently you and your art-in-motion was more important.  


He’s close behind you as you make your way back out of the kitchen, plopping down on the futon. You’re considering the possibilities of your order, eyes on the mannequin and picturing a few colors you could add, some angles and maybe the look could be swayed to something a little more professional. It’s not until his knees are digging into the sides of your thighs that you realize he’s climbing on top of you, making himself all kinds of comfortable in your lap, camera inches from your face and you’re pressing yourself back into the futon cushion, laughing.  


“Jesus Christ, kid, give me a little room here.”  


He pulls the camera away, only to replace it with himself, surprising you with an excited kiss. His shades crash against yours, and he’s reaching up to take away his own while you laugh, low, amused. It’s all sweet, the way he sets his camera next to the two of you on the couch, takes your drink from you and places it carefully on the side table. Your hands rest on his thighs, waiting for him to do something and he does, fingers delicate on your cheeks, cupping your face. He’s pulling your shades and your hat off in the same motion, and you’re surprised at how much you don’t mind.  


“What’s this for?” You sneak in the words between the kisses he’s pressing on you. Fingers still perched against either side of your face, sweet, he takes his time replying while you try to keep up with his mouth.  


“I just _want_ you, Bro.” You hate yourself for the reply that stills him, automatic, it’d been on the tip of your tongue for a while now and you hadn’t meant to let it out yet.  


“Are you sure?”  


He pauses, weighing his words, and when he speaks again it’s suddenly obvious that he’d spent time thinking about the answer to this question, like he’d orchestrated this scene and he was going over the script in his head. His voice had the jumpy rhythm of a cold-read, and his fingers fell from your face to toy with your collar, a move you wouldn’t call him out on as nervous.  


“Yeah. Look, Dirk, I know this’s supposed to feel all fucked up-” Ouch. “-but I love you. Fuck, I’ve had some kind of crush on you for years. None of this shit is new to me, alright, I’ve spent a long time trying to figure out how I could have possibly come clean. I’ve spent just as long, fantasizing about what you’d taste like, how your smile would feel pressed against my skin, so all of this is a hell of a relief.” Your hands have swept up to his hips while he speaks, thumbs slowly making circles over low parts of his stomach like you’re trying to soothe his nerves away. When he pauses, measuring the impact of his words, you fill the blank with your lips. It’s a deeper kiss than its predecessors, but it means more than them, anyways. The parallel of the two of you in the kitchen stalls you. Pulling away, you don’t lie and say that you’ve felt the same way for as long, and you don’t make up some story about how you fell hard and fast, because neither really makes sense. You can’t put it into words yet, why you’re here.  


“Alright, Dave.” It’s the only answer you give him. He’s kissing you again, and it’s just as sweet as before. It doesn’t go anywhere farther than that, soft touches between the two of you. Dave’s hand sneaks down your stomach, once, but you grab it up and press kisses to his fingers, and he backs off. You’re glad for that.

 **Dave == > Flip Shit**  


“Are you fucking _serious,_ Mr.B? You know damn well that those had nothing to do with my recent projects.” The soles of your shoes are loud against the wood floor, curt punctuation to your words.  


“I’m sorry, Dave, those are the rules.”  


“That’s fucking _bullshit!_ ” You’re keeping your voice as controlled as you can, but you’re still loud, hands shaking as you fumble for your apartment key. You’re barely contained.  


“There’s nothing I can do, kid, I’m sorry.” That smug-ass mother fucker. You don’t even answer, hanging up and resisting the urge to throw your phone down the hall.  


Bro opens the door before you even manage to find those goddamn keys, everything about him asking questions. He’s all surprise and softness, understanding, and somehow it pisses you off even more right then. You’re too far in, trying to think of a hundred things you could’ve done differently now that you could feel the opportunity slipping permanently out of reach. All the proud compliments of teachers and professionals, adults surprised by your talent, echo in your head that an early start is the best thing for a kid your age.  


“Dave, what’s wrong?” Bro asks, giving you space when you shove your way in, dropping your bag and leaving it in the doorway. He nudges it inside with his foot before letting the door close, quiet compared to the loud frustration that’s shrieking in your veins. You aren’t answering him, disappearing into your room only to reappear with your favorite sword clenched so tight in your palm you might have worried about it cracking on another day.  


“Nothing, Bro.” You don’t even give him the courtesy of looking at him when you lie, it’s not like it isn’t obvious. He follows you, having abandoned whatever he’d been doing to figure out how to soothe you. You might angrily try and convince yourself that there’s nothing he can do, but you already know that his closeness alone is therapeutic. He’s a fucking rock to your storming ocean, and you both know it.  


It doesn’t really stop the determined walk, the way you mash the elevator buttons like they’re responsible for your fuck-up, glaring at the seam of the closed doors instead of paying him attention next to you. He doesn’t push for details, you both know you’ll talk when you’re ready. He’s just as silent when you’re relieving frustration with your blade, cutting at air six stories up like the swordsman you grew to be. Your form was messy and you knew it. He knew it. You were getting pissed off that he wouldn’t point it out, gently try to tell you to raise your guard, watch your footwork.  


“God-fucking- _damnit!”_ It’s a shrill shout, and you throw your blade like it isn’t expensive shit, not even bothering to watch it disappear into the loud A.C. units. You’re breaking down, but it’s passing, and you’re reduced to the sweaty, sticky discomfort and the impending crash of adrenaline and shaky breaths. You don’t feel like explaining, at this point you really just want Bro to spoil you, to take a shower, sleep and wake up maybe never.  


“Dave.” He’s gently reminding you that he’s still there, watching you throw your tantrum and waiting patiently for you to finish so he can do damage patrol. You don’t let him ask, turning on him with your fists clenched, and the shout in your throat dies when you see him, actually _look_ at him. He’s just waiting for his turn to make you feel better, offer what comfort he can and you _know_ that his voice, the way he speaks, he’s lovingly therapeutic, better than Rose in times like these, is already warming you up from your arctic fury. You feel a pang of guilt for all the times it’d been directed at him; You were heartless, cruel when you were angry, and here he was ready to calm you down.  


He offers you a soft, reassuring smile. You burst into tears like that’s acceptable at seventeen, and Bro would later tell you it was okay, petting your back, but you’ll never believe him.  


“I was _disqualified_. I didn’t even fucking enter, and Mr. B withdrew my holding place.” He’s slinging an arm around you, leading you back inside, and damn if you don’t feel like a child. “I’m not allowed to try again until I’m working with a legally recognized production company.” You wouldn’t tell him about the fact that you were marked as a potential plagiarism threat, unsure if you could handle saying those words out loud.  


“That doesn’t mean it’s game over, Dave.” He reassures, and keeps doing so as you bury frustrated tears into his shirt. He’s leading you to the elevator, back down the hall, until he’s guiding you to the futon and disappearing into the kitchen.  


“What do you want for dinner?” You’ve made a bitter cocoon out of the Care Bare blanket, shades thrown into the recliner.  


“Sugar.”  


“More specific, li’l man, what are you thinking? Sundays? I could probably run and get some cheesecake, but I don’t really think you want me leavin’ you here.” You nod to yourself, he knows you.  
In the end, it’s re-heated tacos and plain ice cream. You polish off both cartons on your own, he barely gets in a spoonful or two, letting you be selfish.  
The night draws on, and you’re occasionally bursting into fits of venting. He even pauses the movies you pick out, your cheer-up classics are on in a marathon. He’s there, looking at you seriously while a freezeframe of Ponyo lights up his eyes, listening to you go on about how fucked up it is that entrepreneurs like yourself are beaten down- and then you’re getting choked up about what you see as a complete failure in your dreams.  


“Dave, you’re talented. You’re charming. People _like_ you. It’s amazing, what I’ve seen you do with such minimal resources, and you can still somehow stitch together a masterpiece. _That’s_ what’s going to get you places, not high grades and competitions.” There were a few kisses scattered around, fingers petting against each other, but it was only for the touch. Fuck if you didn’t love it, love him, all the more for it.  


He pulled you back against him sometime between when Kiki got sick and when she helps out those old women. It’s the part where you used to always cry, and where he still does. You aren’t paying attention to the movie anymore, measuring your breath against Dirk’s, pretty sure that he’s dozing off.  


You need him, you think. It’s always been like this, from toddlerhood and childhood to now, he’s simply there. For you, always. You hope to God he’ll always be there, but you already know it’s a fact. You’re lulled into that security, and the way Bro’s thumb is brushing against your cheek affectionately sleepily, and you let yourself relax out of consciousness like that.


	6. It Doesn't Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They both act like nothing's wrong, and Dave gets a helping hand in a moment of self-love.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long, and I'm sorry it's mediocre at best- I'll rewrite it in time, I was working through a bit of a block

You weren’t going to wake up with the expectation that Dave would be better. He’d be fine, sure, eventually making new plans now that these ones weren’t going to work. He was almost immature. Dropping most of his ‘cool’, he allowed himself to curl up against you, bury himself in you for that same childish comfort that he’d been finding in you since he was as small as he was trying to be now. As he grew, those moments lessened. You hoped they never died out completely, loving the quiet shared space, affectionate brushes from the backs of fingers against your chest. It was always sweet, and you wished it always would be. 

The ceiling was blurry, eyes heavy with sleep. Your body had yet to be freed from the weight of lethargy, but as persuasive as sleep was, you didn’t mind. The door creaked, quietly announcing the kid’s presence before his croaking morning voice affirmed him. It seemed to compliment the air, afraid to make tension in such a quiet place. 

“Bro?” You were working up a response, could hear the doorknob turning back and forth with Dave’s fidgeting. Cute. He moved before you answered, cover dragging on the carpet behind him. The weight shifted as he crawled onto the mattress beside you, sticking his cold feet against your thigh. Wordless, you wrapped your arm around his shoulders, invited him to be close. 

“Dave. Dave. C’mon.” He isn’t bothering you. He's only disturbing the heaviness of morning, like dirt that gradually clouds in stirred water. You don’t want to be waking up just yet. “You’re fuckin’ ice, why’re you so cold?” 

He doesn’t answer more than a wordless mutter, snaking his legs between yours and closing the already small space between you. It’s a Saturday, you don’t give a shit how late the two of you will be here, already justifying the notion of staying in the kid’s arms a few more minutes. 

_____ 

“Oops.” Dave droned in that I’m-actually-not-sorry-at-all shade of tone, “accidentally” knocking two bolts of fabric off the shelves. They clatter, loud and messy, and you’re grabbing them up before they can unroll. “What the fuck, Dave?” He’s already busied himself with rearranging little dolls into pairs and triplets, putting blue-dressed boys with others, pink-clad girls on top of each other. “Look, Bro. A queer orgy. Think you can make a buck off this with your smuppet empire?” He asked, moving his hands in a pantomime of snapshots, clicking away at his embarrassing masterpiece of a sex party. 

It isn’t funny. 

“Knock it off,” You warn, snatching down a few of the dolls and glancing around, hoping to God none of the faint-hearted conservative grandmas in there heard him. 

“Or what?” The kid asked, leaning up against you. It’s close enough to turn heads, just a touch shy from platonic. You elbow him off, and he’s looking at you seriously now. Christ. You’re on edge quick, discomfort settling into your body like it was meant to be there. You don’t want to be seen like this, fuck, you don’t want people asking questions. For all the calm and affection there was in private moments between the two of you, the fear that someone would see loomed. If they saw, they’d call authorities. If that happened, Dave would be taken away—of course, you were aware that Dave’s leaning on you would never warrant something that drastic. Maybe it was guilt, like a child who _knew_ they could get in trouble if they were found out. Actually, that’s exactly how this felt. 

“Or I’ll leave you at home next time I go on a felt-run.” You threaten, tossing a packet of patterns at him that he bats into the cart. He’s turning to pout-mode, hunched shoulders and moody hoodie deluxe. You’ve just subscribed to Pouty Dave Premium. Still, you grab the both of you a couple of candy bars at checkout. 

He decides that you can get the bags on your own when you’re unloading, and you can. He’s usually grabbing at least one to look through and make fun of, pull out buttons and thumbles and compare you to those middle-aged women on T.V. who show other moms how to make a Little Anne’s Bonnet or something else with a shittier name. He’s too busy trying to look spoiled. God, he’s boring when he’s moody. You’d tell him that if you didn’t think he’d instantly start in on your own occasional moodswings. You both took after your mother, you think. She was way worse, shutting down completely in her bad moments. Dave was too much like her- he could make you feel like the world in one word, and in the next you were reduced to nothing. Spitting image. 

“What are you thinking about?” Dave asks when you close your door, fishing your pockets for the keys. 

“Nothing. “ The radio blurs on when the car starts, some Elton John marathon that no one needed, but since Dave immediately starts whining about it, you’re leaving it on. Something to smirk about, mouthing words that barely go with the song that’s on now. Neither of you really recognize it, but you can feel him rolling his eyes at your groove, so it’s fun. 

There’s a trio of commenters talking about Elton’s career, building up to the next track. You already know which one you’re hoping for. Sparkling Diamond for shit, you were way too in love with the soundtrack of Moulin Rouge. With the way this day was going, of course your dreams are answered, and you’re promising yourself all throughout the intro that you won’t start singing it, not this time. Of course that was a ludicrous idea. Why would someone keep themselves from something so indisputably perfect? _That_ was the most pernicious act one could commit to themselves. 

You both burst out in saturated melodramatics at the same exact moment, singing to each other. 

“Mmmmmy gift is my soooooong!” He’s singing like it’s still the recruiting term of American Idol, overpronouncing each syllable and you can’t help the country twist that seeps into your voice when you try to join him. Snickering, you’re looking at each other and making voice-passioned fists, sweeping gestures and shoulders jerking. 

_“And this one’s for yoooou,”_ Fuck, you’re both laughing, but he pulls himself together enough to sing through the next few words, reaching over to put a hand over your shoulder in the dramatics. “And you can tell eeeeverybooody, that this is your sooong.” You’re trying to decide if you should pull over or not, laugher in conjunction with this kid’s fingers pulling at your shirt, trying to tenor yourself through the guffaws. 

“It may be quite simple but, now that it’s done,” You add. “Short as hell, damn.” 

“I wonder who he gets his inspiration from.” Dave quips, and the two of you burst anew. The song goes on without the two of you to accompany it, still laughing over dick jokes by the time Dave starts making cracks about Elton’s sick shades and how good you’d look in them. 

“I think it’s a universal continuity, Dirk. All the flaming gay men can pull ‘em off. You’ve got to try the look, Bro. You’ll do so many guys such a favor. Feed those starved for eye-candy.” All serious, vigorous head-nodding on his side, and the best you can answer with is a tap to your own pointed shades. 

“Think these are flamboyant already.” 

He goes back to singing to you, all sappy and dramatic, winking with all of his body language anytime you glance over at him. He’s got a good voice, untrained, but he knows how to use it. He probably would never have the kick to get into it as a profession, but that didn’t change the fact that Dave knew exactly how to inflect and dip his pitch, and that was an interesting facet somehow to the act that made up his personality. 

You glanced over as he started to sober up, looking out his window and muttering the words as they played. _He’s beautiful._ You reach over and gently nudge his shoulder with your knuckles. 

**Dave == > Shit, Let’s Pose**

It’s cliché as hell, you realize, but you can’t help how much you like it. Like a fog machine, the steam’s rolling in one hot, humid cloud in the bathroom when you pull back the sliding door of the shower. Your own private special effects. You should pay someone to do this when you get rich, add sounds to your everyday life and narrate simple things to make them more interesting. 

On second thought, that’s kind-of sad. 

As usual, you’re slipping the favored towel -Bro’s- off the rack. Catch your eyes in the mirror, look yourself over like you’re some interested flirt. It’s not unfamiliar, how you size yourself up. Let your gaze wander and linger everywhere they couldn’t on someone else. You’re shorter than you’d like, softer than others around your age, but that doesn’t mean you’re scrutinizing those things. In a way, you like it, even if sometimes you’re mistaken for a ma’am. Maybe that’s what makes flirting in the mirror with yourself okay, you’re more interested in appreciating yourself than gettin’ it on. That, too, for sure, but it doesn’t hold as much importance. 

God, you like this. Looking over yourself, moist, hot skin and the light flush to your cheeks, you think there’s an interest to the shape of your lips. There’s not some sex god, or hot-to-trot ego behind it, but you love your body. It’s reserved, calm, picking through discarded jeans to pull your phone from the damp folds. You’ve done this a dozen times, a gallery dedicated to yourself for and from when you were caught at times like these, looking honestly over the light, thin scars that marked your progress in swordplay. 

It’s with the photographer’s design that you plan the first few pictures. Lips parted, the expanse of your own chest framed by a faded orange towel. It’s intimate, capturing the release of steaming breath against fingers and skin and stomach. You’re working yourself up in your hand with slow, deliberate strokes, towel sliding off your shoulders as you shift. It’s all with an ease, a comfort that one only seems to have with their own skin, pseudo-confidence. Another shot, the patch of hair that starts somewhere underneath your belly button, trailing underneath your hand. You could entertain the idea of sending some of these pictures to Bro when you’d finished your little photobooth. 

There’s a soft knock on the door, but it doesn’t startle you. 

“Dave?” The tone behind it matches the gentleness of the atmosphere, like he’d gotten the memo that this was private and didn’t want to come in too hard. You don’t answer right away, intending to but too focused on the progression of pictures to do so. It’s not a surprise when the door opens after a pause. 

“Wanna join in?” You ask, smirking at him through the mirror. You can see him trying to reign in an expression, instinctively withdrawing. The slow strokes you’re teasing yourself with pull his attention, and you can feel his eyes taking you in almost the way your own had done before. All appreciation, but he’s got a tinge of love and guilty want that you adore on him. 

“Can I?” You’re setting your phone down, laughing lightly in reply, and he’s taking his gloves off. They land on your wet, discarded towel with a sound that could never distract you from his features, enamored. Hell if you don’t love how quick he is to draw close. It’s wordless, and it’s perfect. Bro isn’t so much hesitating now as he is still looking you over, like he wanted to snap a few shorts of his own in the same praising way you’d intended for yourself. Pushing his shades into his hair so he can drink all of you in, and you watch him in the reflection. It’s sweet as fuck, he’s kissing your shoulder as his hands finally find your back. You relax into them. They’re not without intent, smooth over your sides as if they’re already familiar with your shape. 

“Christ, Dirk, and here I thought I was the one being seductive.” You mutter, hearing the trace of a snicker in his breath for reply. He knows exactly what he’s doing, and the effect it’s having, fingers smoothing over your stomach and joining your own. You push back into his chest, glancing down at your camera phone. The two of you would make a great picture. 

Your voice is just shy of breathless when you speak, a little preoccupied with the butterflies blooming under your skin. “Fuck, ain’t that a new feeling.” 

“Okay?” It’s a question, one he’s already asked a hundred times- the same one he’d asked on repeat when the two of you had first started strifing. Nervous, faltering confidence on his part almost, making sure you were so ready you snapped at him more than once to just move on in the way little kids do. You couldn’t do that to him this time, and neither could you blame him for the falter in him. Contrastingly, it’s easy for you. His fingers are gentle, experienced, strokes along your length that match up with the slow kisses he pressed to your shoulder. Okay? You’ll never be less than mesmerized as long as his hands and attention are always on you the way they are now. 

“Of course I’m okay. You aren’t gonna' hurt me.” It’s a touch more needy than you’d intended it to sound, but there’s no room between Dirk’s lips and your skin for you to feel bad about it. Your hands slide over his wrists on either side. At least he does you the grace of silence, pulling your hips against his own. His hand’s slicked with pre, sending sparks up your spine each time he swipes his thumb back over the head of your cock, almost too distracted by the expressions he’s making in the mirror watching you to keep track of the sensation that lights up your blood. 

Eyes slip closed, and you let out a long, low sound, resting your head back against his shoulder. Fuck. Fuck, you’ve abandoned the composure you had before, hot breaths through parted lips released into the air while you try your best to roll your hips with grace and not desperation. 

“Dave,” There’s so much in that. It’s not a call if your name, it’s a claim- it’s a reassurance, as much as the palm flat against your stomach, his mouth resting on that medium where neck meets shoulder. 

“Yeah, fuck, I’m right here. I hear you.” With ease, like slipping slowly into a hot bath, you’re coming apart in each quick spark and spasm of muscle. Soft gasps that melt into vocalizations, professing the hot pleasure that builds under your skin. He’s grinding, out-of-time but so, so sweet, against you, teasing you with the thought that you could last long enough for something more. “It’s good, _Christ,_ Bro.” 

The two of you seem to hover there, in that moment, it’s drawing out until he’s no longer kissing your neck, but breathing hard against it. You want to turn around, drop to your knees and watch him with the same eyes he’s flickering up at you in the reflection. He’s closing them when your hand slides up, fingers curling into his hair and short gasps stagger from you, holding him tighter. You’re weak, shoulders curling inwards, his name spilling out on breaths you’re trying to form into kisses against his temple, but can’t quite organize. 

“Bro, Dirk, fuck. Fuck.” Your breath pitches, and then there’s a pause before strings of praise, encouragement, drip from your tongue. His fingers are fucking covered, cum makes slow descent down his wrist and you watch with half-lidded eyes, leaning heavily back against him. 

“Damn,” 

He’s offering to help you clean up, but you’re letting him go, watch him wash his hands while you with shaking hands pull on your clothes. By the time you’re fully in control of your motor functions, he’s already left with hot cheeks and a mumbled excuse. You hear the lock on his door click, even from the bathroom. At least, you send him a few of those pictures, wish him luck while you’re at it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I also have some amazing fanart from the amazing Jayspants here: http://jayspants.tumblr.com/post/116603340360


	7. To Boldly Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Intervention time, and Bro struggles between normalcy and his feelings.

There’s an upturned box that’s absolute disarray in your bedroom floor, intricate mechanical bits and pieces that usually seem to fit into patterns in front of your eyes- today, they’re falling apart. You aren’t so much building as you are moving pieces around and staring at them blankly. Dave’s in your head, stealing your thoughts away. You don’t even mind. The only thing you can picture from it is how he felt, staggered breath against you, eyes undressing you through the mirror, pulling you apart in pursuit of his example. Fuck, he’d simply _crumbled_ in your hands, soft voice low and quiet, for your ears only. You hadn’t seen him too much since yesterday. Honestly, you’d been embarrassed as hell; fiery arousal lighting up your blood and provoked further by the hot reality of Dave in your arms like he’d been. 

Of course, those pictures were an inspiration of their own. 

You weren’t worked up at the memory quite yet, you’d really only woken up a few hours ago and vivid dreams full of your name in Dave’s golden mouth were enough to start the day off with heavy breath and damp sheets in the first place. You should probably jump in the shower, you’d been too busy with totally- _not_ -hiding in your room the evening before. Of course Dave would only up the flirtatious attitude he thought was alluring. You weren’t quite so flippant about how beautifully easy this all is. It’s almost worrying, you think. Trying to find the problem. There really, simply, truly _isn’t_ one, and that in itself has your nerves on edge. This is simply _okay_. It wasn’t a question of your readiness, you loved every minute around him as always. Every kiss, breath, touch, you weren’t regretting any of this so much as worrying yourself sick over the fact that you knew it’d happen again. That eventually, this might have consequences. 

The phone rings, snapping you out of yet another daydream. 

“You’ve reached _Strider’s Stitches,_ this is Dirk. How can I help you?” It rolls off your tongue, automatic, a practiced greeting you’d been using for years. You should really get a separate phone for the business. 

“Hello, this’s Dave’s guardian, right? I’m Mr. Burdick, one of his professors.” Oh, shit. That’s the one he’s seeing for film and drama, or whatever the name of it’s called. The same one that had taken his opportunity at Sundance away. 

“Oh. Hey. I’ve heard quite a lot about you.” It’s blaringly obvious that you’re unsure why he’s calling, you’d never spoken to the university directly before- it was always a proxy or a message through one of the highschool’s staff. Or Dave. Mostly Dave. 

“Probably not all good things, huh? Dave’s pretty torn up over his disqualification from the Sundance draw.” 

“He’s been putting his imagination to use, there are a few lucrative insults I’m saving for later, sure.” You lean backwards against the recliner. He doesn’t sound like as much of a dick as Dave paints him to be, but you can’t help feeling a little bias at first. 

“I can imagine. I’m calling because I’m worried about him, Mr. Strider. He isn’t as invested in class- his grade is dropping. It’s like he’s dimmed somehow. I know he can get through his disappointment, but I hate to see him so… discouraged.” There’s a pause in the line. You want to feel like it’s his fault this has happened in the first place, but you know better than that. He sounds genuine, cares too much to have arbitrarily done something so harsh just because Dave can get rowdy. Funnily enough, you’d had complaints from every teacher besides this one. 

“I know.” 

He apologizes, explains that he loves having Dave in class, and the two of you talk a while. He’s an interesting guy, a playwright who’s more in love with the stage than the cameras. His first name’s Craig, but he prefers his middle name, making a joke about how ridiculous ‘Craig’ sounds on a cast list- it takes you a whole fifteen minutes to realize you’re just a touch flirtatious in the way you’re talking. He’s sweet. A few years older than you. Interested in the business you’d answered for, asking the kinds of questions you love to answer. Jesus Christ, you’re aching to ask for his number- entertain the idea that the two of you could talk over coffee. 

You don’t. 

Hanging up the phone is harder than it should’ve been. You toss it into the pile you’d been tinkering in with an unceremonious clatter that sums up how you feel. Relaxing back against the chair, you run a hand through your hair. 

Dave. Right. You know exactly what could help him now, what had always been the big Last Resort for either of you in times like these. 

___ 

“Star Trek, really?” Dave’s voice drips with skepticism. It’s the ultimate Mood Intervention between the two of you. It had been showing at home, slow and subtle and just enough to get under your skin, know that he was brooding too much to be as indifferent as he said. 

“Yep. The start of it all.” You look at the cover of your box set, all of the original series- Dave’s favorite. Yours is the Next Generation, and you’ve got most of those episodes for backups. “We’re gonna' watch all three seasons today.” 

You can remember it, the very reason this show was so precious in the Strider family. Back when the only thing you could do was torrent movies, since there was no way affording them was an option. He’d watch it on your laptop, get excited every time Bones did something cool and go on about how neat it was that people could go to space. 

Comfortable in your lap, he had pulled your arms around him, too short for his feet to reach the floor, kicked them the way six-year-olds do. 

“Do you think I’ll ever meet a Vulcan?” He asked, holding his hands up and wiggling them into his own version of their greeting. You snickered into his hair, making the sign with your own fingers. He put his palms on the back of yours. 

His eyes grew so big when he learned that it was an act- some dick at school had been mean about it, and he’d come asking you question after question- how do they film it? How do they make Spock’s ears pointy? _How can they know what space is like?_

He’d been absolutely mesmerized when you explain it. Makeup, actors, special effects. It was a story on screen is all, and he hadn’t stopped loving the concept since. 

“I’m not even surprised, damn. You’d better have gotten movie candy- and I hope I get more than a kiss this time.” He’s laughing as you toss him one, two, three bags of sweets. 

“You kidding? As far as I’m concerned, I’m up in the count. I don’t think you’re in a position to be makin’ demands.” He sticks out his tongue at you. _”That’s_ not a bad idea, kid.” 

“Get your head out of your pants.” He mutters, trying not to smile. The two of you pull out the futon. You take the comforters and pillows from your beds and bring them out for prime cuddling space, warm up some leftover pizza since neither of you feel like calling someplace for delivery. It’s a hell of a nice night, and he feels so fucking good, curled up against you. You watch his favorite episodes first, then your favorites, and by the time those are all out you’re both too relaxed and calm to make cracks at the ones that aren’t on the favorites list- though Spock’s Brain pulls a few laughs, hilariously unrealistic, no one has to say anything to share the snickers. 

There’s an intermission every five episodes or so, this is the third break you’ve taken. 

“Hey, Bro.” Dave calls you softly, his legs crossed on the futon while you come back into the room with two fresh drinks. 

“Yeah?” 

“Thanks for this.” Glasses are set on the coffee table, and you take a seat next to him at the edge of the mattress. 

“I think y’needed it.” You smile gently, and he scoots a little closer. 

“I think I need _you.”_ Oh, shit. He nudges you with his elbow, smiling that giddy kind of smile he does when the two of you are close. Then he’s leaning in, you’re kissing something sweet as hell- it’s so much better than the first time. You’re both smiling against each other, breath mixing sweetly. He’s grabbing you, climbing slowly into your lap while your hands smooth up his sides, rest on his hips, hold him close. 

“What, are you gettin’ in the mood with all this sexual tension between Spock and Kirk?” You’re asking into his shoulder, and the feeling of him snickering against you is beautiful. It’s easy, he’s settling against you while the intro to another episode plays. 

It goes in starts and stops; he’s laying almost on top of you, slow kisses that seem to gradually build between breaks of interest in the show. His hands are on you more than you’re on him, playing with your hair, touching your neck, feeling out the dips in your stomach, gracing across the scars on your arms. 

It never goes anywhere past a few bold touches from him, always answered with a smiling press of lips against his temple. You’re okay just to be in each other’s arms. Seeing him so unwound puts it into sharp perspective; he’d been way more anxious than you’d thought. It’s good to see him back to himself again. 

**Dave == > Be Struck With Inspiration**

Dirk leaves the apartment early- around seven, you think, you were at school when he left. He isn’t supposed to come back for a few more hours, which means you’ve got prime time to fuck around. You’ve been struck with an inspiration, a vision, no- a _mission_. 

You’re building a robot alien out of cardboard boxes, ductape, and aluminum foil. 

It’s coming along fairly nicely, if you’re being honest. And you are, setting up two cameras to get the most of this horrific, terrifying scene. You were putting Godzilla to shame- you’d even dug out a blue longsleeve, hot-glued some gold trim around the cuffs. Bam. Instant Starfleet uniform. This transcended irony into levels no mortal dweeb could comprehend. 

You were two-thirds of the way through a touching rescue scene- the main heroine, saves a beautiful woman from the tyranny of the robot alien, all played out by paper on sticks which portray the romance of the scene very well if you do say so yourself. 

It’s the middle of a fifteen-second kiss, you’re making loud noises to the camera when Bro comes home. 

“You think the robot’s convincing enough?” 

“Yeah, dude, I made it myself. I even wrote ‘Alien Robot’ on the side, if it wasn’t clear enough by the amazing doodads and aluminum.” 

He laughed something gorgeous, and offered to help you out.


	8. Breath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New swords get people laid

“Oh my god.” It’s beautiful. Absolutely, drop-dead gorgeous, and it’s _yours._ Dirk stands over your shoulder, reserved, grinning like some smug-ass jerk. He was exactly that, and you loved the fuck out of him for it. “Where did you even get this? _How much did it cost?”_ He does that slight shuffle, readjusting, that breath that says _a little too much_ , but he ultimately shrugs. You’d gotten used to that years ago, but it was an art that was thankfully dying out.

“Not really important, is it?” You’re not gonna' push for an answer, too wrapped up in the beautiful weapon in your hands. The hilt is carved into beautiful slashing, swirling patterns, what looks like silver inlaid into some of the grooves. It’s wrapped in spongy, soft leather, high-grade and gorgeous scarlet-brown. The blade itself was etched, those patterns from before frilling and spiraling up, tapering out with the same gradient that the metal itself does.

“This looks like a fucking _classic.”_ You stand up, the thin box and tissue paper tumbling onto the floor from your lap, completely ignored. A few practice swings, testing out the weight. It’s perfectly balanced, like a goddamn acrobat in your hand, flying with your guidance in a show of skill and pulchritude. “Bro. We need to strife _right the fuck now.”_ You mutter, fingertips so carefully ghosting over the etches in the blade, never actually touching metal.

It’s a whirlwind to get to the roof. You can barely wait that long to start dealing cuts, which in your excitement are too messy and predictable for him to do much more than bat away. He’s backing out onto the roof, the loud rumbling of air conditioning units droning. Heat rises from cement and machines alike to mix in with the sweat that’d be breaking on the two of you soon. It’s the fucking best feeling in the world. Every flick and strike rolls off your body as natural movement with the ease this new blade worked on you.

“You ready for a beatdown?” Your excitement comes out in cockiness, but he doesn’t seem to want to deflate you from that this time.

Good.

The first strike comes from you, of-fucking-course. The collision of metal sings high above the A.C. army next to your battlefield. Whirs and whips, the breath of a blade that comes too close and sticks your hair on end, and you’re backing up unscathed.

“Y’really think we’re gonna’ have a loser this round?” Bro asked, punctuating it with another easy flick, dodge your cut.

“Yeah, you.” You get knocked down from _that_ with a blow, it hits the back of your knees and you stumble, hard. “Fucking hell, Bro.”

He’s snickering behind you, whirling you around, keeping you off-balance until you lash out. 

_Snikt._

It’s a tear of fabric, a hot near-sting of your skin prickling like the anticipation before you get cut. The soles of your shoes scrape against cement with the harsh way you turned, still in that off-balance dance he’s barely giving you space for. He’s snickering when you trip.

“Fuck!”

The word resounds again when you’ve landed on your knees, hard enough to hurt on scattered, rocky ground. 

“Are you givin’ up?” Bro prompted, the tip of his sword looming like a threat near your face. If _that_ wasn’t an empty gesture, you weren’t a Strider. 

“Nah. Just give me a sec, here.” You jumped up, and back into the fight. You both already knew you were going to lose again, but it was fun- and perhaps doubly entertaining when you caught his eyes lingering on you, and he’d press you farther with lit-up cheeks. This was a goddamn opportunity dropped into your lap from the gods of irony themselves- fuck the movies’ shitty deities, _these_ were the ones who really ran the show.

It started when he’d flashed beside you, not quite lightning-quick enough to miss the fingers you’d slipped low on his stomach, there and gone just as quick as he was. Bro had faltered a moment, unsure if you’d meant it or not, and all you’d given him as confirmation was a swipe at his sword arm. Another one, after he fucked up a deflection and you’d cut up his shirt, forcing him to turn around so he wouldn’t get hit- _that_ was a solid cop. You hadn’t really known how deluxe his ass was before that gamble, and if these were the results, you’d be betting more often. He called you on the third time, though, too slow to attack. You side-stepped it, and he nearly crashed into you, bringing him closer than safe distance for a move, so you made one on your own. Quick, deft digits smoothed over his partially-bared chest, and you were going in for a kiss. You stopped short, melodic rumble of laughter bubbling up through your fingers.

“You’re cheating.” You hadn’t realized how hard the two of you were breathing, assuming that since no one had won yet, the fight was still on; you were ready to call it quits and take a shower.

“I’m not cheating anymore than _you_ are by flashsteppin’.” It’s a quick reply, looking up at him with a hint of victory in your smirk. “I’m ready to go back inside anyways, are you?” 

“I dunno, maybe if we stay up here a little longer, I might be gettin’ more than a feeling-up.” 

“Nah, if we stay up here, you’re getting an ass-kicking. And I mean that in the least erotic way possible.” You push at him a little, and trust him enough to turn your back, heading towards the door downstairs.

**Bro == > Breathe harder**

How Dave was so full of energy after a fight like that, you’d never understand. His shoulders bounced in front of you on his way down, weightless and airy and easy, with a charged excitement that was infectious. You were a mess, pushed a little farther than you were used to towards losing- and Dave had won before, generally on your own allowance, but he’d mastered this skill long ago. He was catching up to you. You’d lament on how he might be doing that in more ways than one, how strange it used to be when the two of you would crowd the mirror in the mornings to shave, or the first time he’d asked you for the keys.

For all of the care you put into him, Dave always seemed to remove himself from you for the big steps. John -someone you’d only known as text and flashes of an acne-ridden face, messy dark hair over a webcam- had been told about Dave’s big breaks, high points in film school before you were. Fuck, Dave had _come out_ to that long-distance nerd before he’d talked to you, and you had never been secretive about the fact that you’re gay. You couldn’t help the subtle, jealous way you regarded John and the other close friends Dave had through screens, but right now; Looking at him, catching his eyes as he opened the apartment door for you, it was an absolute fuckin’ certainty that he was _yours._

As you passed him inside, you cast a glance down either end of the hallway before stealing a quick kiss, a peck of lips that was a revelation; a relief at how easy it could be. He breathed a soft snicker against your mouth, and fuck if you didn’t fall for it. You pull him inside, letting the door swing shut behind him so the two of you can get back to that grand idea of romance, the clatter of swords to be forgotten at the entryway until much later. Dave’s grinning, picking at some fresh cuts in your old shirt, feeling out the bits of skin he can through slim openings. You’re content to kiss him, ease your lips against his and appreciate the smooth way the two of you shuffled around each other- sloppy footwork, really, he was pushing you inside and you were letting him, unwilling to separate long enough to walk properly. You’re both caught up in each other, devolving into a flurry of kisses in quick succession you’re trying to keep up with.

“If this’s what winning’s like, I’ll be doing it more often.” He teases, but he’s more interested in you than he is in gloating.

The edge of the couch hits the back of your knees, and he goes down with you. 

“Y’didn’t really win, did you?” You counter, laughing against his bold advances.

It lingers in the back of your mind, how open and vulnerable the livingroom makes you- as if anyone’s going to see. The want for an enclosed space isn’t pressing you like Dave is, shifting himself around in your lap, thighs clamping over yours and hands on your chest. He’d snicker and mutter between the frenzied kisses that moved in feathery flocks over your neck, cheeks, occasionally drifting back to your mouth but never for long.

“Fuck you, of course I did.” Dave comes back to the conversation after a while, and it takes you a moment to figure out what he means with the distraction of his mouth, the way his hips are grinding into yours so slowly it was hard to tell at first. 

“Why don’t we agree on mutual absconscion?” 

“That’s not even a _word,_ now shut up.” Dave silences you expertly from there, hips taking on a bolder rhythm and you could finally feel friction between you. Your hands slide up his thighs as a reflex, palming over his backside, rocking him against you in an accentuation of the rhythm he already had going. Knees dropped apart a touch more than they already had been, and his own dug into your sides.

It feels fucking _good,_ to have him against you, drink in the way he smelled like cheap Old Spice and taste lingering traces of the fruity gum he’d had earlier, feel warmth in patches through the tears and rips in your shirt. You could have him like this, you realized. He’d always been enamored with you, his Bro, his idol that would later morph into the singular person who’d have his attention, adoration. Even as a little kid, he’d been racing after you, going through on-and-off spells of trying to wear hats like yours until he found his own style. He’d grown up different, but unfailingly complimentary; he didn’t want to _be_ you. He wanted to _impress_ you. Little did he know, he always had. 

Dave’s soft, delicate voice sounds on you, reverberating through your skin, his hands finding anchorage over your collarbones. 

“Dirk,” He mutters it, _breathes_ your name like it’s something beautiful. In his mouth, you could be convinced that it was. You wouldn’t tell him how much you loved the way he said it- for some reason, your name had always been a kind of taboo to him; only to appear when he was scared or serious, anxious, always at a vulnerability to you and now was no different. Your fingers smooth up easily, one hand staying as guidance while the other moved, taking time to enjoy the way Dave’s stomach dipped before you started testing out his waistband. You slip your fingertips under his boxers, and he nearly breaks your wrist with the grip that’s so sudden you aren’t gonna' admit to starting a little.

“Hands off, Bro.” Dave grinned at you, catching you in another breathy kiss. 

“Come on, kid.” You’re grumbling to yourself as soon as he pulls away, your hips are rolling up into his in shallow undulation, echoing the rhythm he’s already set, an edge of impatience tainting either of you. His thighs are shaking over yours, and honestly it’s cute that he’s trying so hard to please, draw this out like you hadn’t done for him in your embarrassment. 

He’s suddenly had enough, then, breaking and abandoning his patience and leaving you to crave just long enough to start shimmying out of his joggers. They haven’t done anything to conceal his stiff arousal, a hell of a lot more revealing than your slacks. You help him take off his shirt, and he’s doing you the same courtesy, taking time to press a stray kiss or two on places of interest, skirt your fingertips over him and enjoy the way he reacts. You want to spend time spoiling him, lay him out and flutter kisses over every inch of him, see how many ways you can make him moan and stutter, find out what he sounds like when he’s giggling underneath you, but this is a hell of a substitution.

He’s squirming, determined to undress without getting off of you. Your abrogated clothes are lying in sporadic places across the floor, draped over the room where either of you had tossed them. He’s all boxers and long limbs, soft skin and excited, shaky confidence, bright eyes you’d fall for repeatedly, without fail. 

“Shit, Dave. Y’look good like this.” You mutter it in an attempt to be funny, but it’s proven true as you watch him, back relaxing against the cushion again and hands sliding up from his knees on either side of you. You’re starting to appreciate the perspective, front-row seats to watch the way his hair shifts over his forehead, exposing all of the expressive tendencies Striders were wont to conceal.

“You should see yourself.” His eyes are picking you apart, sitting back while his hands trace where his gaze falls- your chest, over your collarbones, fingers spidering across your stomach before he’s palming you. You’re almost laughing at the abruptness of inexperience, how Dave’s cheeks color dark a few shades, hiding the unfamiliarity by burying his face in your neck. You snicker until he starts teasing you through your briefs, nervous movements that spread flutters through your veins all the same. 

Your hands are on him, over him, tracing stars and spirals over his chest and developing pectorals, brushing interested, pricking flesh and dragging your fingernails lightly over his abdomen.

“Fuck,” Slender fingers tug at your underwear, and your hands slide down his back, pulling his boxers down with your thumbs when you palm his backside. He’s readjusting just enough to remove that last polyester barrier between the two of you, rest his head against your shoulder to take in the sight.

“What’re you lookin’ at?” You ask after a moment, defensive, reddening a touch.

“You. And, I’m not really sure what I’m supposed to do now.” He admitted, hand resting against your hip.

“Dave- Here. Like this.” You take his hand, careful to follow his little rule, guide his fingers around your cocks with your own, a soft breath at the simple contact. “Just- yeah, okay? You got it?” He leans back, picking his head up, watching your expression before his hand starts moving, jerky, foreign. Pre glistens over his fingers and slicks down your arousal, drawing a low, appreciative sound from you. Jesus fucking Christ, the way he reacts to that is beautiful, too, like your voice goes through him in all the best ways.

“Y’done this before?” You ask, neck stretching out when you lean your head back against the cushions, and you don’t need to look to know that he hasn’t.

“I’ve messed around some, but not like this.” You prompt him again, pulling his hips back into yours gently, and he hisses at the feeling; fuck. You love the way he sounds. It’s devolving, though; you’re both starting to get desperate and his pretense of patience is wearing thin. The shuddery gasps that shake him inspire chills in you, feeling them fan out in phantoms across your throat. Your fingers mimic the feeling on his own, thumb over his windpipe, palm pressed against his collarbone, gentle. He’s warm, and you can feel every sound he makes reverberate through your fingertips. He doesn’t really know what he’s doing, erratic strokes of his hand and poorly-angled, hungry rolling hips of his. Coupled with this whispered expletives, colored cheeks, the way he breathes your name and how his eyes screw shut now and then, shocks running through his thighs and make them tighten over yours; it’s too fucking hot to discount in the slightest. 

“Fuck, _Dave,_ ” You’re moaning, liquid, and his parted lips round open.

“Bro, I think I’m gonna', fuck, y’know… shit.” He’s a mess of words, disorganized, tense and getting more so.

“It’s alright,” 

You’re both panting, rocking your hips hungrily up into the increasingly messy movements of the other, drink him in while you still had the agency to do so. There’s pressure building, heat in your veins that he beats you to releasing.

“Fuck! Dirk, shit,” He’s hiding the words in your shoulder, muffling them like it’s some secret that he’s loving this, hot cum dripping between you, over his fingers and your stomach, but he’s not ready to quit until you’ve done the same. It only takes a moment for you to catch up, breathless in Dave’s orgasm and then again in your own, wordless, fingers tightening into his thighs as you came.

When the two of you finally come back to Earth, he’s curled up against your side, brushing your chest with damp, trembling fingers. You breathe for a moment, catch his hand in your own and cool down before throwing the both of you in the shower, dully shampooing each other’s hair and giggling to the other in your shimmering afterglow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I took forever and I'm sorry so hey here's smut. That's the only reason you're here, right?


	9. Picking Up Where You Left Off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's in the title pretty much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm ready for a nap

“Hey, dudes, behave. Goddamnit, Kirk, you’re an asshole. Fuck off.” You threw a few of your sunflower seeds at him, beaned him in the head once, and instantly felt bad. Not for too long, though, he’d straight-up killed a few of your favorite birds up here and you never forgave him for it. Prime Directive your ass.  


The murder of crows around your feet hop and skitter, a black pool of jittery movement that jumps in waves every time you toss down a handful of feed. It’s nice up here; open. The confinement of walls and earth and dirt and bustling cars, people- it can’t touch you up here. Your venting can be released and dissipate into the air without ceilings to trap it in, let it press against you only to settle back into your skin again. As always, your only company is the crows. They’d already listened to you moan about Bro; about filming, about everything you could think of and then some. You’d only just shut up to enjoy the soft caws and coos among them, readjust yourself on the lip of the roof.  


This halcyon din of birds honestly helped. They weren’t much for offering advice, but at least they never made you feel like shit. Not that Bro did, either, but you supposed this had a little to do with him, so he was more of a go-to when you’d need comfort about the haphazard series of events that was beginning to clutter the headspace you’d much rather have used for something productive.  


“Come on, now, leave some for Atreyu. Don’t be dicks, guys, there’s enough for everyone.”  


Bro had been pushing at you lately, suggesting what might make a good shoot, watching you in that same way he often caught you, when you were itching to get him modeling. It was getting under your skin and he knew it. You adored the attention he was giving you, sure, loved the soft little hints that he thought you were beautiful, the way he’d ghost his mouth over your neck and ask for the dozenth time if you’d film some other aesthetic he thought was to your taste. They were all very… well, like him. Cliché, almost, in a way that was edging on the border of originality. You couldn’t explain it with only a few words, just that his little attempts were both cute and wearing you thin. You felt stretched, pressured to film, force out some masterpiece that you honestly didn’t have in you.  


You didn’t want to let him down by telling him that, though.  


Fuck, what about the new relationship dynamic? It wasn’t stressing you out so much as worrying you; what’s going to happen when he realizes you’re literally a teenager, and he deserves someone who’s going to be old enough to _get_ him? Who’s going to have patience as he matures, who can actually slow down enough to appreciate him? Those problems wouldn’t arise until much later, but the thought was still nauseating. Dirk deserved someone who would be an equal, who could match him, not someone who only _wanted_ to, and that’s how you felt.  


Of course, the two of you understood each other. That was why this worked, because each other’s company was as natural as breath itself, because you could breathe _him_ in a kiss. That didn’t mean you were equals in this, and you knew it.  


You were zoning out on the birds, and they were losing interest. The ones who’d eaten more were already flying off, their flutters grabbing your attention- and then the rooftop door opened, and you were forcing an interested look. It faltered, melted into honesty when you saw what was in your Bro’s hands.

**Bro == > Take Initiative.**

The familiar metal fit perfectly against your palm. Maybe it had gotten smaller, or it was old enough to predate your last growth spurt. You’d pretend the latter wasn’t an option, because hell if you would ever appreciate the memory of being that scrappy teen (or, really, of keeping an old tinker of yours for _that_ long). The REC light was faded and dim, but still blinked softly underneath the illumination of the kid’s grin and the gentle morning dark.  


“Fuck you, Bro.” Dave snickered, despite his posing and preening like one of the birds. Fuck if he even needed to, you were never a talent with film and yet you could see how natural he was, how he could flirt with the camera as easily as he did you. Maybe it wasn’t even intentional, fluttering hands and cute, pouting faces. The rooftop light threw interesting shadows into the perspective, even though the beautiful dark of night was softening up, it was still shit for cameras.  


“Thought we already established that.” You dare, capturing as much as you could in the little time you had before he’d jump up and take the wheel, get irritated at your inexperience behind a camera and try to show you how. He’d eventually take it from you, unintentionally condescending and demonstrate how a _real_ cameraman did a job.  


“Why do you want me to get to filming again, anyways? You’re so fuckin’ focused on that, Christ.” He’s running a hand through his hair, shifting in tone and body language. Avoidant, anxious, self-conscious in a way that didn’t fit on him. Dave wore confidence like a well-tailored suit, it accentuated his talents and personality highs, drew people in and brought out a certain taste of beauty in him; this was as off as if he’d been trying on one of your own jackets. It lowered your guard and hands, looking at him with your own eyes.  


So you sat down. You turned off the camera, and made yourself comfortable next to him on the lip of the wall, watching the birds in the moments it took you to come up with the words. 

And then you talked. You both did, leaning against each other, your fingertips grazing his shoulder when they weren’t moving to accentuate your words in a gesture. You told him how talented he was, how it was hard to watch him abstain from something that was so meaningful and held so much importance to him. He talked about his fears of failure, about how despite his realistic mindset, he didn’t think he could handle the real possibility of simply _not making it_.  


“I don’t want to look back when I’m about to kick the bucket and think, _is that really all I could do?_ I want to make an impact,” He started, electricity lighting up his body in anxious movements. His knee bounced in as much of a precise rhythm as you’d heard in every breath, word, and beat of life that Dave Strider was ever known for. That’s to say, haphazard and disorganized; impulsive, accentuating and expressing any particularly meaningful syllable.  


“I know you do.” Dave relaxed against you, fingers lazily curled around your knee, sighing against your body. Shit, you wanted to think this was cute, up on the rooftop and surrounded by the flock of birds that only ever came for Dave; his paparazzi. The sky was plain and clear, didn’t have any answers as always, but at least it held that lonely comfort of endlessness; you’d always liked the idea that whatever going on was small, compared to the sky. It didn’t hold so much power then, and especially now when the stars were fading back into their recess, the cracks and nooks of space. “Why’re you so apt on thinking that you’re gonna' be a failure?”  


“I’m not. I promise I’m not, it’s just… fuck.” Dave stood up, pulling away from you. He’d never been the type to pace, but when he was struggling to express himself and his words were stressed like he was threatening a stutter once again, you’d give him all the space he needed. Crows fled around him, hopping away or flying off. “I don’t want this to be a _trend,_ I’ve lost… I’m hitting a block, and I’m hitting it _hard.”_ He rubbed his arms, like he could scrape off the doubt that’d been haunting him.

**Dave == > Be inspired.**

Bro stood up, about to offer some sort of advice or whatever, and he didn’t need to. All you needed from him was exactly what you got, pulling him in with a simple touch to his waist.  


You’d kissed a lot of people, but no one had ever quite kissed _you_ like Dirk did. He kissed you the same way he strifed; and the very same way you’d imagine he fucked. He kissed like it was a lesson, pressing a soft sentiment against your temple, nose, setting an example that he’d quickly expect you to follow. And you did.  


“Y’just need to find your inspiration again.” He offered, resting his forehead against yours.  


“I don’t think it’ll be too hard.” You mutter, focused on the shape of his hands between your palms, running your fingers over protruding knuckles. You made him cook pancakes, then, sitting on the counter and very pointedly not helping while he tied a goofy-ass apron around his middle, stir up the batter and pour it in exaggerated dick shapes into the pan. Pan-dicks for breakfast.  


That really only opened the door to a beautiful world full of jokes about blow-jobs, fighting over the syrup to see whose pancakes would be the first to cream; it was childish at best, but fuck if Bro wasn’t snickering, and you loved that.  
___

“I honestly don’t see the sex appeal in that term.” You muttered to yourself, curled up on the recliner with your laptop against your thighs, three different memory cards in each slot they could fit while you collocated every file from “Frames” you could find into their proper files; it was about time to start editing, wasn’t it?  


“What term?” Bro asked, and somehow this all had a special kind of feeling since it’d been so quiet before, with him concentrating on cutting out a pattern. The heavy _snnnnnkt_ of scissors and your keystrokes had made conversation before.  


“Cream. Like, I’m creaming myself.”  


“Y’probably need to look into that; Y’didn’t even touch anywhere.” He mutters, not looking up, and you snicker.  


“No, I mean, honestly. Cream. In your pants. That’s _definitely_ gonna' get _me_ off, Bro. I’m screaming. Scream and cream.” Click.  


“Sounds kinda like a band name.”  


“Oh my _God,”_ You’re laughing, now, looking up at him. “How many tickets would their first concert sell, huh? The Scream-and-Creamers, in theatres near you. A heartwarming tale of friendships and hardcore anal fisting.”  


“Filmed and produced by David Emmanuel Strider.” Bro quipped, and you pulled a face.  


“Ew, why’d you have to say my full name? That’s worse than the term itself.”  


“Sorry, shit, that felt weird to _say._ ” The two of you settled back into quiet again, until you glanced up at him and caught his eyes darting away. Cute.  


He let you sleep in his bed that night, didn’t even have to crawl in on an excuse. You just strutted in, stripped to your boxers, and buried yourself amongst the covers next to him.  


“Oh, is this seat taken?” You’d ask, earning a pretty, deep chuckle from him.  
It’s gentle, lazy, hands over your body and sleepy kisses in your hair and neck until you’re lying on top of him, half-hearted rolling of hips and soft lips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's short, but there are short things in this world that we must all come to live with. I'm just going to leave that sounding like a passive-aggressive complaint at some datemates' downstairs, but it's not.


	10. The Scratch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An introspective on their relationship- still working out the kinks. Dave faces off with more than birds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to everyone at Metrocon for their love and support!

“Dave. Davie. Darlin’. Dave-Dave. Honey. Sweetheart.” 

“What the _fuck_ do you want, bro?” The kid snaps, glaring up at you over his laptop screen with harshness you hadn’t quite expected. It’s immediately softening, he’s covering up his temper with indifference, disarming himself. Maybe he’d only afford you that; you hope that he isn’t abusive to PA’s when he makes it like you know he will. _If I ever find out that he is, I’ll personally show up to kick his ass._ You make the note. Dave is more capable of cruelty than either of you would like to admit. 

“I wanted t’ fool around, but I can’t say I’m into angry sex.” You shrug it off, trying to ease the tension. He huffs from his nest of pilfered pillows, claiming a fortress on your bed. 

“As if. You’re too scared to deflower this precious olive to get your dick anywhere near my ass, let alone devolve into aggravated fornicating. You’re _that_ guy at the party, the one that’s breaking up the kids in empty rooms ‘cause they don’t have condoms. Thanks, party pooper, take these and go fuck yourself ‘the proper way’.” Shit, he’s sarcastic as hell, throws a sock at your head. He misses, and you’re more worried about his saltine attitude anyways. 

The glow of your monitor isn’t so attractive. 

“Dave, I’m not-” 

“I know. I’m too young, you’re scared of fucking me up, some brotherly thing, but this isn’t about that, Bro.” The tension is amplified a hell of a lot by the fact that he’s determined to stay focused, fingers on the keys and eyes flitting between scenes. You aren’t really sure if he’s genuinely upset at you for the details of his newborn sex life, or flatly irritated you won’t leave him alone. 

As always with Dave, you can’t possibly take chances. 

“I’m not _ready,_ Dave. And neither are you. Shit, kid, don’t make it weird or anything, it isn’t. I’m just tryin’ to be responsible about-” He’s groaning, throwing himself against one of his pillows and burying his face in it. 

“I swear to _god,_ Bro, I don’t give a half-soggy, first-time _fuck_ about the day you finally claim my pooper. It doesn’t _matter,_ shit, it’s not worth it anyways if you’re not into it, just _shut the fuck up so I can work!”_ You’re quieted for all of three seconds. It ends in a snicker, wheeling your desk chair around to look at the wonder himself. He’s got one of your hats screwed over his messy hair backwards, professional concentration you knew would ruin him when he got older; he’d be a binge-worker, go days on three hours of sleep. Then he’d take a week off for pampering, buy himself something nice and cling to you for attention, maybe. If you were still in the picture. Your stomach twisted at the thought, and you moved on. 

“Are y’ever gonna' let me see it?” 

“Yes. Maybe.” The fabric shifts and shuffles as he picks himself up. 

“Maybe?” You raise your eyebrows, lifting yourself out of the desk chair to saunter around the side of your bed. He wasn’t really defensive about you seeing the precursory work, disorganized clips didn’t make a storyline yet, even less so when they don’t move. 

“Yeah, if you aren’t an ass, I’ll let you see it all.” His tone’s a hell of a lot kinder. 

“Ain’t I a starring role, though? I’ve _lived_ it all.” Dave groans, annoyed, and you rifle his hair affectionately. 

“If I kiss you, will you let me work?” At least he doesn’t jip you of a good one. It’s sweet, too, tying to make up and you’re already forgiving him. He pulls himself away to remind the both of you that he’s busy, and you throw in the towel. 

\--- 

Arms sneak around your middle, palms quick to slide up your shirt and over your chest, and fuck if you don’t live for the way Dave hugs you. He’s pressing a few kisses into the back of your neck. 

“Pay attention to me.” He nearly whines it, shattering whatever spell was keeping you still, frozen over the kitchen sink with your arms elbow-deep in the bubbles. 

“Ain’t I always?” You flirt, pulling the dishtowel from the counter, drying yourself off, turning in his arms. He’s quick to make it cute, kissing your nose like _you’re_ the short one- what, did he have to stand on his toes for that stunt? You’d seen him throw himself off-balance in strife or arguments just to swing an impressive trick. He was doing the exact fucking same now, steadied with the hands that were on you. 

“Not right now, you aren’t. I gotta have it _all_ the time, don’t you know? I’m a class-A diva, and I’ve been working on Frames. You’ve been lax in your ‘spoil-Dave-rotten’ duties.” The kid’s burying his face in your neck, fingers playing against your shoulder blades. Your own damp hands rest on his hips, keeping him close, trying hard not to laugh at him and bruise his feelings. 

“Oh? And what exactly is my duty right now?” 

“I dunno, blow me? We haven’t fucked around in _forever.”_ He’s back to whining, and you’re the one with the offense in your tone now, put on as it was. 

“If you mean forever as in yesterday, then that _is_ a tragedy.” You’re returning his affections in small doses, lips against the soft curves of his face- you hoped he never grew out of that, never became as angular as you. 

“Shut up and suck me off, Bro, please? Pretty please? I’ve spent the past four hours editing a compilation of that gorgeous face of yours, I’m dying to see it on me.” He’s leaning into you, and hell if his hands weren’t a persuasion that’d make infomercial writers prostrate themselves in awe. You kinda love that he’s all hands-on you now, even if it tastes like the same uncertainty that you hold towards him; reaffirmation. 

“I ain’t gonna' fuck up my knees, doing it on the kitchen linoleum.” He lets you move around him, making comments on how he hadn’t expected it to be so easy while you guide the both of you into his room. Honestly, you wanted attention from _him,_ too, so this worked out; granted, you’d been planning on something a little more genuine and a lot less abrupt. 

He’s beautiful when you stretch him out over the mattress, drag your hands down his chest and abdomen, catalogue all the tints of his skin, the pretty contours of stomach that you’d spent all kinds of time blowing raspberries on when he was little. You stutter at the thought, caught looking up at him from your place just above his belly button, lips soft over warm, anticipating skin. The motion of fabric and the perspective of breathing are a pretty combination, if such things weren’t also limiting you; He isn’t ever going to give you the time you _want_ to fuck around in, not until he mellows a hell of a lot out. 

“What are you waiting for?” Dave is so fucking quick to complain, impatient as always. The hands that had been thrown over his head in the shuffle of pulling his own shirt off descended, picking through your hair. Recent developments made it hard to keep your hat on in the house, since taking it off was always the first thing he liked to do in kissing you. 

“Nothing.” 

“Should I, uh, try to be more romantic or something? I don’t honestly plan on doing you any favors.” Wow, you’re thankful for the honesty. The little shit’s popped his eyes open and looks down at you in near-comedy. The idea that he’s a self-insert character in SBaHJ isn’t so outlandish with the kind of expressions he pulls with you; stoic your ass. This is the same dork you’d seen jump and scream at a well-placed smuppet or two, cover his mouth in shock at the crows he fed. 

“Well, now that you’ve owned up to it, I can put you down for a freebie anytime I want.” Dave shrugs, nodding. 

“Sounds fair.” He’s done with the apology the second your mouth is back on him. Fingers skilled in finer crafts put to work against the rough fabric of denim and cotton; you love the way he draws in breath, how you have to hold his hips down so they’re not rolling up against you. He’s so fucking _eager_ for you, he wants you to already be on him, in him, against him, shit. This’s what balances out his temper, the fucking constant way he proves that he’s yours, if you could ever stoop to such things as pseudo-ownership over a person you loved. 

It’s so easy, stringing him out. Dampening his briefs with hot breath and tongue on the outline of his already excited arousal, this is usually the part where he snaps at you to stop teasing him. As if on cue, the kid’s fingers are threading into your hair, silent sweet talking. Nothing counts unless it’s audible, you’ll tell yourself, but that’s a hell of a lie. You trace a wet line over his hipbone and hear him sigh while your fingers persuade polyester down. His skin was so much kinder on your lips than the fabric had been, nosing a soft patch of blond that you were still pressing kisses in. His length falls against your cheek, hot and smearing pre. 

“Excited?” Can’t help the jest, he’s seemed to have forgotten his cool somewhere along the way. 

You know better than to keep him waiting. Your mouth is sloppy as hell, moving to lavish his length with all the kisses you’d treated the rest of him with, open-mouthed and wet. 

“Don’t you know? Your lips are fucking perfect, Bro. S-sw…” He takes a breath, slowing himself down. Shit, you love it. Sometimes you miss his stutter. Shaky inhale. You’re still only kissing him, teasing, listening. “Sweet as hell. No wonder I like ‘em so much.” 

Cute. Your hands start moving, you probably shouldn’t forget them so much. You’re admiring the shape and touch of his thighs with your palms, smoothing over pretty muscle and fine hair. Dave’s knees drop apart an inch farther, and his voice resumes the babble when your fingers pass the juncture of hip and thigh. A little shudder runs through him, cute breaths that seem to ride the motion. 

“Touch me, man. Come on, I love your hands.” You oblige him. Slow strokes, your tongue trails in mirror against the hot flesh of his prick. The sound he makes is fucking liquid, golden, a moan. 

_Like that, Dave?_ You’d smirk if you didn’t think it’d take away from your little performance, if it’d stop the praise Dave seemed to like giving. It wasn’t _your_ kink, but you appreciated the kid’s voice, the way it faltered and hitched. You’d never done this with him before- well. Not exactly. The two of you had started something like this, but you both backed out, not really ready. 

**Dave == > Panic**

“Shit.” Your hips twitch under Bro’s palm when his mouth closes over the head of your cock, an open-mouthed kiss that he took farther- an inch- before he was pulling up again. “Your mouth is fucking _sweet,_ Dirk.” You can’t stop your own from moving, puncture the air now that the two of you were getting acclimated to intimacy; familiar wasn’t a fitting word. The two of you were fresh, the taste of him on a kiss was still new. 

_“Stop teasing me.”_ You break, it’s what he wants, isn’t it? “Please, Bro.” Apparently it fucking is, because you’re grabbing at the sheets and sucking in a breath in the instant he takes all of you in at once, swallow around your cock. A gasp wrecks your lungs, shuddering against ribs that ache in protest. It’s outweighed by the rush of warmth from your hips, from Bro’s tongue and mouth and the hands on you like reassurance. 

It doesn’t take long; he’s bringing you there exactly the way he wants to. Pressure builds, heat, he pulls his mouth off of you and sucks the inside of your thigh, his fingers keeping pace on your cock, thumb brushing against its underside in each stroke. Spasms run through you, electric jumps across your muscles, accompanied by the breathy sounds of rambling praises and idiotic half-conversation. Molten cum spills over the back of his hand, and your shoulders are curled in so far you’re propped up on your elbows. It’s a hell of a ride, flushed cheeks and shaky breaths, and he’s pulling back with those last, slow strokes to ease you out of orgasm. 

“Aww, that was cute.” He smirks, and you nearly kick him. 

\--- 

You’re a master of the sweet, strict discipline that comes in putting together a film. It’s easy when you’re a god of it, labor and rest in everything that made up the world of observation; you recreated the universe for entertainment. 

Romanticized or not, editing meant a hell of a lot to you; the finishing touches on a masterpiece. Scattered ideas were jumping into line at your direction, and the nearly-finished product _met your standards._ A beautiful secret, documentation of a journey you’d taken and lived with your brother. 

There’s this clip of the two of you- as far as you know, Bro’s unaware of most of your filming when it happens. Yeah, it was a dick move, to film your amateur intimacy with each other sans permission, but you’d sacrifice certain morals for the sake of a good shot. Hopefully, he’d appreciate it, too. 

_“Yeah, nice. Fuck, Dave, I might start thinkin’ you’ve done this before.”_ Bro’s voice is dimmed through speakers on low settings, a scene set of the two of you in the same place you were laying to work on this; your sheets. 

_“That’d be funny, considering I have.”_ It’s your voice, quiet against the skin of his thigh. On screen, your hands pull at his jeans, tugging them farther down to give yourself some extra room. 

You clip that scene down a hell of a lot, but ultimately keep it in with some humor. Maybe another day or two and it’d be perfect, but even now it had promise. Frames: a masterpiece that no one would see. The irony itself could have been a fixture of the project, honestly, made you appreciate the work even more. Nothing could ruin your gleeful mood right now. 

And then it does. 

“Fuck! What?!” Blank. The blue hue of death lights up your soldiering laptop like certification; a threat, or perhaps a final call. “No. No, no, shit, shit, _shit!”_ Slapping keys, mashing unintelligible letters into a void of data, you’d lost sight of your unsaved masterpiece. No. This can’t fucking happen. What was it, too many nights perusing RedTube, or had you just made a mistake in your last download? Bro was supposed to keep the anti-virus network going, and he was the best, so… so… 

Your fingers are shaking as you dial your brother’s number.


	11. Working Title

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bro to the rescue.

“Hey, lil’ man. Did y’miss me too much? Couldn’t wait ‘till I got home.” You readjust the volumes of phone and radio, straining to make out the kid’s voice in so much extra noise. 

“I-it’s _gone,_ Bro.” The light turned red. Of course it takes a while for you to figure out what the fuck he means, but the knots your stomach is capable of tying itself into comes in realization and you somewhat wish you were a little slower. 

You got home a few hours later, run across town twice by an unsatisfied customer. You couldn’t complain, you’d been the one to make the tailoring error, but you hadn’t expected them to be so hard on you about it. Shouting, demands for a refund, the whole shebang; and here you’d only forgotten some trimming. Honestly, if you ever settled down and started hiring, you’d never let _this_ happen to any of the employees. Of course it made it easier to bear, the anxious tapping of fingers that came with worrying over Dave- you could see him, pacing furiously, probably call John up to panic at him about it, skype Rose. Jade wasn’t his go-to for fuckups, he liked her to see him as cooler than that. Sometimes you wonder if that bothered her; She’d gone as far as messaging you to make sure Dave was okay, and you think he’d be better off to communicate with her a little more. 

Dave would stress, raid the kitchen to drink all the soda and open every bag of chips the two of you owned; he’d never eat any, unable to sit still long enough to do that. Or he’d be walking around the apartment, phone in one hand, chip in the other, waving it around in exaggerated movements. You kinda liked the way he’d speak too fast to get a breath in, let alone a chip, and how he’d seem to only get more frustrated for it. 

Opening the door was like springing a jack-in-the-box, Dave’s on you, chattering and tugging faster than you can take it in. 

“It took you too fucking long, Bro, just- Christ, I’m glad you’re back,” Fingers dig into your wrist, and he’s dragging you towards his room with an enthusiasm that might’ve been exciting in a different light. 

“Give me a second to _breathe,_ kid.” You brush it off with the a forced breath of laughter, but the tension’s too solid to soften with anything past a miracle, something you’re pushed to worry for. 

He’s pushing his laptop into your hands, muttering about what’d happened- blue screen, and then a refusal to start back up past login. It’d just shut down again. 

“You can fix it, can’t you? Right? Bro, I know you can, okay. Thank you _so fucking much,_ Dirk, I’m so fucked up right now over this goddamn film, I just… _need_ it to be alright.” Dave’s saying, and his eyes aren’t on you. 

“Hey, li’l man.” You stop him, taking his laptop in one hand. The other reaches out, the backs of your fingers gentle on his cheek. “It’ll be fine, alright? I got this.” You aren’t sure you do. He trusts you anyways, wholly and completely, his fingers soft now over your wrist, pressing a kiss there. 

“Thanks, man.” 

You move the operation into your own room, forbid him from coming in for any reason other than a fire. You know he’d hover over you the whole time if you let him, and there’s no way you’d be able to operate under that kinda pressure. Pushover, maybe not, but a sucker for sure. You couldn’t handle seeing him anxious without wanting to swoop in and fix it in whatever way you could, but this was what you had to do right now. 

It’s half an hour before you realize there’s nothing you can do without taking his laptop apart- to be safe, you’re pulling out boards and hooking it up to your computer, downloading everything there- the files are scattered, and you’ve probably just given yourself all his viruses, but your automatic systems should take care of it. Backup, at the very least, was easy. 

You remember the first time he’d been involved with your work- _this_ work, the kind that was in your fucking blood and code. He was ten, maybe? Nine? The science fair had always come easy as shit to you, but after about two years you stopped trying. You were in eighth grade running the show on popcorn kernels, whereas in third you’d had shit _down_ with basic mechanics; look, class, this is how you build a computer. You’d rather be cool than smart, even if you were above getting picked on as a nerd; it _was_ cool, but you didn’t think so. With Dave, it was different. He’d always wanted to impress them- in sixth he’d been determined to use the crows. As it turns out, the social structures of sky-roaches was pretty interesting to him, so much so that after seeing a glimpse of Sawtooth in a video, he’d begged you to make him a bird like that, that could move. For the project, of course, and not because it was cool as shit. 

He’d sat on your desk the entire time, all kinds of intent, swing his feet some. Eventually he crashed on your bed. The teacher filed all kinds of complaints when the damn bird-inator (Named so by yours truly) started squawking criticism of her outfit and teaching methods- but he’d scored a hundred, would’ve gone on to the state competitions if Dave hadn’t pleaded with you to deny the invitation. He’d never been super into this, mechanics and all, but he’d always think your handle on it was the shit. 

You two still had the thing somewhere- it didn’t work anymore after an incident with ketchup, but it still looked like some dystopian villain, red eyes and all. 

You forget to tell him that everything’s safe, in the midst of your personal victory- you dive into taking that sucker apart before you think of it. You even clean out his keyboard for him, wipe down the screen. You’re zoning out and you fucking love it. It’s about two hours later that you’ve disassembled and reassembled the entire thing, and start it up again. Somehow, and for some reason, it’s working now. Six virus scans and a hell of a lot of malware cleaned out via your own computer’s hookup, and you’re looking at three hours’ total work. 

“Dave?” 

He’s as you predicted, in the kitchen with the Cool Ranch Doritos hostage- he’s calmed down enough to actually be eating them, but he’s still pacing, listening to whatever his friend’s saying. He looks up the second he catches sight of you, cutting off his friend to ask you for an update. 

“Did you save it?” 

“Yeah, kiddo. ‘Course I did.” His entire body loosens, a breath of relief that moves him so hard he sinks back against the counter. 

“Hey, Captor. Yeah, nice talk, look, I gotta go. Yeah man, chill.” He hangs up, forgetting about his phone the second it lands clattering onto the counter. “Bro, get fucking _ready.”_ Dave’s coming at you like he’d spent three weeks at an abstinence camp, throws his arms around your neck as if that made up for your little height difference, showering you in kisses like you tasted sweet. 

“Whoa, whoa, you haven’t even seen it yet, am I gettin’ this sugar as some preemptive reward?” You’re not protesting, and the laugh that finds its way from your lips, pressed against his cheek, lips, stands proof for that. The two of you’d seemed to have broken some kind of barrier, and affection came liberally and in large amounts- not like you were void of it before, it was just _different._ Maybe tense? You couldn’t judge from this side of the veil, to be honest, and your perception was perhaps even more skewed by the kid’s excited hands, picking you apart and pulling at your collar. You thought you were being drawn in for a kiss until you actually opened your eyes. Oh. Right, the kid was leading you to—his laptop. Alright. You’re not supposed to be put out. 

“It’s about time you saw it, don’t you think? I’m not done yet, but,” A pause, slender fingers pulling his screen up, turning it on. Another breath of relief, sinking into your bed as the monitor lights up with a login box and an icon of a SBaHJ frame. 

“Frames? You’re finally gonna' show me the works?” You scoot up behind him, the mattress shifting, pulling the two of you together in a magnetic kind of attraction. You drape your arm around his shoulders, and he’s pressing play. 

**Dave== > Wake up**

It’s so cliché. It’s so fucking cliché. This is the most unoriginal, name-brand Great Value™ shit ever and you love it. It had been what- four years since the kiss in the theater? There had been a hell of a lot of movie dates since then, each one of them full of sneaking kisses and entwined fingers. If the two of you had been a normal couple, it might be something you did on anniversaries. You refined Frames into perfection, but you didn’t think you’d ever be done with it entirely. You’d add clips, still. Sometimes months would pass without touching it. Bro would bring it up sometimes, mostly if you were working on another project. He’d never venture to ask, but you’d let him watch it again sometimes. 

“Good mornin’ beautiful.” Your words are about as articulate as they could be, with your own special brand of morning diction. Your tonge’s still waking up, but that doesn’t mean you can’t press a few kisses to the other’s face; forehead, nose, sugary shit like that. He doesn’t reply, instead more tightens you a little closer with the arm over your waist. 

You’d never felt so perfectly fitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm really, really honestly sorry for how long this took. I know I've been updating pretty regularly since the beginning, but a lot of things happened. Lost my home, learned a few lessons and I think I should have stayed on, since this fic honestly means so much to me, as does the person it's for. It's almost over, so thank you to everyone who commented, or left kudos- just, anyone who let me know that they're reading. It's something I need as an artist and something writers rarely get, and I'm very lucky to have readers as good as you all.


	12. Curtain Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pretty much an epilogue

How long has it been?  


Your eyebrows are knitted together, brooding over Froot Loops like they could have anything to do with the broiling cloud over your head. Thunder cracked through it at the sound of your phone lighting up in the living room, stuffed into the cushions of the couch where it’d fallen out of your pocket. Dirk wasn’t home, which might have been a good thing.  


Too much happens, too quickly. Things are always moving- and not in the orderly, clean-yet-overwhelming ticks of a clock, in which the motions are impossible and perfect and ceaseless but _predictable_ and in tune. This was more like a lost child at a carnival, surrounded by a thousand lights and loud sounds and smells of deep-fried sugar and sweat and cologne, crying into dirty fingers at waist-level to a crowd that was too busy pushing and laughing and arguing to stop. Your hands moved to make a note of that analogy, but you lost interest halfway there.  


In the past six months, you had been through somewhat of a crisis. Five years since that pretty theater kiss. You’d been learning how to navigate a relationship for just as long, in everything from soft-lipped utterances against warm skin to curt, frustrated arguments and once, a threat to leave. You weren’t a child anymore, but Bro would never really see you as anything else.  


Then again, you were still calling him Bro, too.  


Depression fucked you up. You were used to this by now. It hadn’t been nearly as bad when you were a teen, but the days of forgetting what made you give a shit about writing or photography or your brother, shut yourself in your room watching youtube videos for 43-hour streaks weren’t exactly over.  


You pushed your cereal bowl down the counter, untouched away from you, and rested your elbows on the marble. Rubbing your face with your palms only revealed the stubble there, kneading your eyes with knuckles until they hurt and you scrunched them shut until the stars in your vision faded. The phone was ringing again, but you weren’t about to run for it. Fuck, the screen of your laptop—it had been pushed away, just enough for you to stare at your cereal instead of the keyboard—hurt your already strained eyes.  


It wasn’t too bad, though, because you were watching something familiar.  


___  


“Dave! You little shit.” Your mocking, impish laugh bubbled up through your lips- a few months after your eighteenth birthday, this had been, slender and spit-slicked fingers shakily holding up a palm-sized camcorder you’d pulled out in the few quick moments it’d taken Bro to wrestle off his shirt, body outlined in the glow of the television, a shapely silhouette against flashing commercials. The futon’s pulled out, like it had been for days after a particularly frustrated session of some sonic game you two’d been obsessed with.  


You kept on your clothes, however, jeans unzipped and unbuttoned, but your thick-striped tank pushed haphazardly up your stomach. It fell back down when you sat up, recording Bro’s impromptu show.  


“What, you think I’m gonna' waste this good material? You’ve got me six kinds of fucked up, Dirk, there’s no way. Could you kind-of stick your ass out a little more?” He wadded up his polo and threw it at you.  


“Dick.”  


“That’s what I’m trying for, Bro-mine.” You smirked behind the eyepiece, weight shifting on the thin mattress as he climbed up towards you, hands-and-knees, his stupid shades all crooked on his face just like that stupid smile of his. “You think you could go back to sucking on my fingers like you were before? Hella boner material there, Dirk. Gets me all squishy.” You’re teasing, holding out the hand that’d already smeared spit on the side of your camera, wiggling your digits.  


“Nah, I think we’re gonna' switch it up a little, since you wanna’ get all slick.” One of his familiar, course hands ran up your thigh, play against your hip, send a ticklish jitter through you all kinds of playful- and then the _theif_ swiped your camera. It was all smirks from him, half-hearted protest on your side.  


“What the fuck! You’re not a cameraman. You’re going to take some ugly-ass video and leave _me_ to edit it.” You weren’t swiping for it, against your protests you thought it was exciting. Later, the video would show your stupid-surprised face, trying not to laugh while the other’s free hand nudged you back against the mattress, smoothed over your stomach, thumb brushing over your hipbone and pulling you closer. It’d show your fucking cherrypit eyes, follow the movements of your hands and Bro’s awkwardly coordinating to spread lubricant on his fingers- he didn’t trust you to hold the camera for him.  


“I think I’m seein’ the appeal now, you’re fuckin’ adorable.” He muttered sometime after you’d parted your lips from behind the lens, after he’d pushed your jeans down your thighs just enough, slid lube-cold fingers between them. You still weren’t quite used to the feeling, still jumped when it first touched your skin.  


“Fucking _asshole._ I’m supposed to be the one gloating.” Dirk made a kissing noise from behind the camera that made you want to kick him, smug as hell. One day, it’d be you- you, collected and amused, teasing him with your fingers, waiting until he whined and pushed against your hand like _anyone_ needed that much prep before you even touched his dick, gave him the satisfaction fingers, taking his sweet time, waiting for you to break before he’d give you more. You knew at least that much, about the way this worked.  


Hopefully, you looked as good as he did on camera, and not just “adorable”. He’d tell you that you did, in that thick voice of his that only seemed to show when he was intimately focused. The one you damn well lived for.  


“Dave,” God, he loved this. Loved watching you, red-faced and rolling your hips anxiously up against his hand.  


“Fuck, Bro, come _on.”_  


Dirk always gave you what you wanted. By now you’d learned that going slower paid off in more ways than one, but that didn’t stop you from lowkey resenting how careful he was. _I’m not a child, Bro, just fuck me already,_ He switched which hand held the camera, the other flattening against your abdomen, as if he was trying to hold you steady when his hips finally rolled against you.  


___  


Five years, and you were still adding to Frames. It had become a comfort, a personal project that would only end when you did- technically, there was more than one “Frames,” but it all felt the same, each new collage another summary- there were three now. The best raw files would stay, lingering in the memory space of a special flash drive, and that was one of them.  


When you were desperate for reminders of why you were here- what made you _yourself,_ somehow you always ended up here. Reading old attempts at plays from yourself, watching old clips that you’d believed were the absolute shit at their recording.  


The release of your first film had you questioning everything; that you had invested yourself in the right thing- were you meant for this? The thrill of it was overwhelming and underwhelmingly unromantic in equal measure- the lights were as bright as you’d dreamed, but it had been enough to blind you, and though your name became something more than you’d been the past few years in complex roles of independent films, you’d been left in pieces, inexplicably. It was like you’d finally won Sundance, and now you had no clue what to do with the award.  


Frames.  


Why the fuck had you named it that?  


**Bro == > Come home.**  


You were relentlessly optimistic about Dave’s first premier. He’d come around- you knew that much from every other big step on his résumé. The first lead role he’d gotten, the first screenplay he’d landed a contract with. Being criticized and turned down didn’t seem to affect him, it _encouraged_ him, which was something you were grateful for since there was all too many harsh words in the industry Dave had picked out for himself.

 _“Pretty good for an ugly, second-rate actor with an overwhelming lack of charm,”_ You smirked at the thought, remembering some half-dressed blond maniac on an excitement high, gloating over you in the bedroom while he quoted the critics, hands sticky with hair gel after he’d run his fingers too much through his ‘do.  


Maybe it was that he was afraid. Failing before he started didn’t worry him; it was a prompt to try again, you thought, he’d had his best days on the ones where a contract or role fell through, opening all the windows and throwing around papers to the loud soundtrack of his favorite musicals, sweeping you up in an excited dance among a script he’d decided to give up on or one he’d been a diva over and dropped. He’d never explained why, never really knew himself. There was a faint fear in the back of your thoughts that thought that, maybe after a few more years and a hell of a lot more successes, he’d be so overcome all the time with getting it right, and the anxious post-release depression that came with it would kill him.  


But Dave adjusted. He liked himself far too much to be driven to such drastic kinds of measures- Dave was an artist tormented by his work far more than himself.  


Then again, the two were hardly distinguishable at times.  


This apartment complex was so much quieter than the ones you two had stayed in before; before you hit six-digit paychecks, before Dave had started making enough money to actually call an income. Sometimes you found yourself wanting to settle into a house, something more long-term, but the imagining of something so permanent was alien still even to you. Dave had grown up in it like you did, and while he never asked about moving into a neighborhood rather than a complex, you’d seen his eyes follow “for sale” signs in the nicer neighborhoods, comment about how nice John’s new place was once too many to be as casual as he tried to make it seem.  


The door was unlocked.  


“I’m home.”  


“Oh. Hey, Bro.” Dull, unenthusiastic, you clicked your tongue at his tone. The sound of the keys hitting the counter sounded a lot louder when everything was coated in your little Diva’s mood.  


_“Hey Bro,”_ You mocked, rubbing his back as you passed behind him. “We’re going somewhere soon, kiddo, so y’might want to get your shoes on.”  


“Look at you, all moxy and confidence. Makes me sick.” He mutters, not sounding as upset as his words would imply, hardly moving when you’re kissing his cheek, wrapping an arm haphazardly around him briefly before you’re moving on.  


“Do you really expect to drag me to let you drag me out in public right now?”  


“Get over yourself, kiddo, you’re a star an’ all, but no one’s gonna' pick you out of a crowd yet.”  


“Is that any way to speak to royalty?” He’s muttering, but he’s getting up and you’re glad to hear him try for humor.  


___  


It’s funny, how much he looked like himself. The twenty-two year old could easily be seventeen again, forehead resting on the glovebox, arms crossed over his stomach. He hadn’t changed out of his pajamas, sockless feet in sneakers and one of your hoodies. It was still a little big on him, even though you were both the same size now- which you privately thought was cute.  


“Where are we going, Dirk?” Technically it was a question, but his inflection was stripped of tone. You’d never really noticed how often the other’s voice conflicted with his words.  


“Out.”  


He figured it out about three blocks away from the theater, suddenly straightening up, sighing, leaning back against the seat. You couldn’t tell if he was amused or annoyed, but somewhere in between was probably the most accurate. Wordless, he finally reached out and linked his fingers with yours after a few minutes of silence, and when you looked over at him, he was busying himself looking at his other hand like his nails weren’t perfectly manicured.  


You bought him Reese’s.  


This time there was another person in the theater, but they were in the very first row, dead-center, and was probably rendered deaf by the boom of sound from a mic bought on a $50 budget. The beginning of _The Midnight Invasion of the Killer Accountants_ wasn’t much more than Dave’s hand in yours, soft snickers from the two of you once in a while. There were jokes neither of you had to say to share, a now-old tradition worn out and perfect still in form.  


Around the time the horrible romantic subplot began was when he relaxed into the seat, leaned his head on your shoulder, stroked the back of your palm with his fingertips. Cologne from yesterday still lingered on him, mingling with the smell of chocolate and peanut butter.  


Dave might describe this tradition as a way of getting laid in his less-than-romantic moods, and he wasn’t wrong.  


He loosened up around act three, lost to well-timed quips you’d practiced over years and years of twisted humor; your arm slung around the back of the seats on either side of you, this place was so familiar, like another room of the apartment. Sometimes you’d urge Dave to buy his own theatre someday, play these kinds of movies- shit, _film_ these kinds, but he’d always laugh and turn you down, brush it off like a joke.  


You’d like to see him fuck around for once, as ironic as that was.  


“You know, I wanted to be one of the kids to make it big on some college project. Like with Napoleon Dynamite or something. I was gonna' show everyone what a gold mine I was.” He murmured, just around the time you were thinking that the supporting role might actually have a chance.  


“I know you were. You think it’ll make much of a difference now that you’re already on your way?” You pulled your hands from his for a moment, fisting your eyes with your knuckles.  


“Yes.”  


You paused, for a moment struggling to understand what line had been mumbled and tripped over on-screen, before you heard his soft voice.  


“Dave- you’re got somethin’ to say, okay. It’s more than just film to you. Maybe you’re not upset that you’re making it, that you don’t know if it’s good enough- you don’t know if your point’s getting’ across. When you know you’re received, you’ll be happier. For now, just. Know that you’re heard, alright? Let the rest go, yeah?”  


He didn’t reply, so you leaned over and kissed him just over his temple. He’d grabbed your hand, sweetly, brought your fingers to his lips in the dark after you’d thought he’d forgotten about what you’d said.  


On the way home, the silence lingered again- changed. Content. The kind of breathless pause after a good joke.  


“Would you marry me, if we were normal?” Dave asked it like he could break the world with his words, soft, careful, looking out the window at the few stars that could still be seen past the light pollution of your city.  


It took you so off-guard; you took a minute to understand what he’d asked. One hand rubbed over the fabric of your polo, fingers colliding with the sharp edges of shades clipped over your collar. Dangerous to drive with them on at night.  


“I never saw you as the type to want to.” He sighed, just as gently, something wistful. You couldn’t imagine a future without him, and yet you’d never really thought about something so mundane.  


“I don’t think I’ll ever want to settle with anyone else. I don’t know. Maybe the glitter of the silver screen will change me, but. You know. If we ever could, if things were different.” _If things were different,_ you repeated in your mind, felt your lips nearly mouth the words. Something twisted in your stomach, an echo of what it had that night when you’d first found out what his lips felt like. _If you weren’t my brother,_ with as much time as you’d had to learn how to understand your role in each other’s lives, you weren’t immune to guilt yet.  


“We’d run away together and get it in Vegas, and then on a beach somewhere, and then at the Grand Canyon, the Golden Gate. On some street corner. That’s what it’d be like, y’know?” His head was turned too far to see his mouth, but you knew he was smiling.  


“We could still go places, Davie. You want a ring, too?”  


___

 **Dave == > Bow**  


Dirk’s driver’s license was cold against your skin, picking the plastic up from the kitchen counter and pressing it against your fingers. You’d dissected his wallet while he was lounging on the futon, untied shoes laid on the floor beside them. The laces were tucked neatly inside, his shades clatter softly over the coffee table. Fatigue dripped off him like the rain he’d been battered with.  


He was beautiful like that, you thought, even if it’d taken a double shift and a sleepless night before to get him there; he was gorgeous on any day, but especially now. When he was the most human.  


You tapped your fingernails against the shimmer on his license, smirking. Eye color: Hazel. As if hazel was anywhere close to Dirk’s Sunny-D brand lookers, you thought, dropping the card against the counter and getting up. He didn’t look up at the sound of you shuffling around him, sitting on the floor between the coffee table and the futon. You threw your arm over his stomach and laid your head on it, looking at him from a new angle.  


“Dirk?”  


“Yeah?”  


“I love you.” His lips pulled into a soft smile under the arm he’d thrown over his eyes. You pressed a kiss to the hand of his that rested over his chest.  


“I love you too, Dave.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've spent almost an entire year on this project, honestly, and it's been through the hardest year of my life. I started this work as a Christmas gift to my dear friend after I was kicked out of my house, and as hard as I've tried, each of the best chapters have been inspired by the hardest times. I've been moving place-to-place, dealing with loss after loss and this work has always been a vent and a dedication. Why has this last chapter taken so long? I don't know. I didn't want to end it. I didn't want to write anymore, at one point, and I think the only reason I was sparked back into it was because of the person this is for. Thank you, to everyone, everyone who read this- especially those who left Kudos or commented. It really helps, to know that you're appreciated, even if it's rare and few. Thank you for, in a sense, being with me through this year, and thank _Jayspants_ for being such an amazing friend.

**Author's Note:**

> AMAZING FANART BY HELLO-CLOUDY  
> http://hello-cloudy.tumblr.com/post/117032069063/frames-is-sooooo-goooooood-u


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